Labyrinth
by Drovenich
Summary: After discovering what the world really thinks of him, America makes a desperate wish. That becomes a nightmare. Trapped in a parallel world that hates him, he struggles to maintain his sanity. And the nations who need him are forced to watch him fall.
1. The Other Side of Me

**Dro: **Don't ask me why I started writing this now. I was bored at 1:00 AM last night and decided to find something to do. Although it does feel refreshing to have another fic in the works. I probably won't update this too often until I finish World Powers though, so don't expect a clockwork rotation update like my other three fics. Those will still be updated in their normal 3 day rotation until I finish World Powers, at which point this will take its place. (Or that's my plan anyway...)

**Chapter Summary: **After learning what the other nations really think of him, America desperately wishes to get away from it all, only to end up end a virtual nightmare.

**Warnings: **Violence, Language

**Disclaimer: **Dro has not and never will own APH. She is a poor, poor college student and will probably not be winning the lottery any time soon. Plus, you probably don't want me to own APH. If I did, this would be canon.

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><p><em>Breathe. <em>

_Breathe._

_Breathe, damn it!_

He turned the corner too fast, his knees grating against the concrete as he slipped, tearing the skin of his knees open. He caught himself with his uninjured hand and pulled himself back up, darting into the alleyway just as a barrage of bullets blew past his head and bounced off the scarred brick walls of the decaying apartment complex. He cradled his bloody left hand close to his body, its tendons mutilated to the point where his fingers wouldn't even twitch.

His lungs burned with each breath, and he knew he was getting close to his limit. There was a bullet in his chest, and he could feel it resting against his lung, taunting him with every ounce of air he inhaled. He didn't know what that bullet had injured, and he didn't want to. As long as he wasn't on the very of death at this very moment, that was good enough for him. Because he had to keep running. No matter what.

His shoulder grazed the corner of the decrepit building as he cut his turn too close, and he winced. He didn't need anymore injuries. There were tears blurring his vision, and they were a disability enough on their own. This was…this was the most terrifying thing that had ever happened to him in his entire life. He leapt over a fallen trash bin and hit the ground running. He wasn't sure how it started or how it was going to end, but he figured it couldn't possibly get much worse. Not at this point.

For the millionth time in the last minute alone, he wondered just what it was they were after him for. The financial crisis? The war in the middle east? Had China finally snapped over his massive debt and turned the rest of the world against him? A million possibilities. He wasn't even sure he wanted to know the answer. That wouldn't give him any sort of reprieve. Not after the hostility they'd already shown.

They were going to kill him. He knew that already. There was no escape for him this time. There was no easy way out. Or hard way. He was in Moscow. He had no way to reach the airport. He had no way to flee all the nations who were actively hunting him down. They'd been set off so suddenly, guns blazing before he could even get out a question as to why they all seemed so shocked and horrified to see him. Had his country done something without his knowledge? He wouldn't know. He never knew nowadays. He barely knew what he was doing himself most of the time.

As his breathing became more labored, he thought back to the beginning of the day. He tried to crush the pang of sorrow in his chest, the one that had blossomed earlier in the day as he'd stood on the other side of that door and just listened. Just shut up and listened like Arthur had been telling him to do for centuries.

He would regret it for the rest of his life.

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><p><em>He gingerly approached the meeting room, checking his reflection one more time in the mirror. He looked perfect today. His suit was pressed and clean. His tie was straight. His hair was combed. He smiled as brightly as he could, checking it for any signs of discontent that may have leaked through. But no, that too was perfect. He was the epitome of ignorant happiness with a helping of obnoxious arrogance. Just like he'd always been. <em>

_Occasionally, he considered walking into a meeting with a different act. Maybe the way he was really feeling? Stressed out. Frustrated. Physically ill for weeks at a time. Depressed. Angry. But no, he couldn't do that. It was too much of risk, he knew. A sudden change in his demeanor could have catastrophic results. Some would try to take advantage. Others would shy away in fear of a beleaguered superpower, who held in his hand the firepower to crush them if they said the wrong thing. Being a superpower was hard. Harder than most of them assumed. They usually seemed to be under the impression that life as America was easy. _

_He couldn't remember a time when it had been. He remembered the laid back and care free exploration of the West. But that quickly came crashing down. He remembered the roaring twenties. But that was just the façade of a catastrophe laying in wait. Never in his life could he have called being America "easy," and he couldn't imagine why the rest of the world would think his existence was any better than theirs. _

_He made his way toward the conference room but stopped short when he heard angry voices on the other side. The door was cracked open slightly, and he leaned close, trying to gauge the atmosphere of the room. They'd always been convinced he couldn't do that. Sometimes, that made him smile, half amused, half sorrowful. Because that meant that either he was so clever that he could hide his actual intellect from everyone in the world or that not a single other nation cared enough to try to truly understand him. He figured it was best to remain ignorant to the answer._

_The response was immediate. He heard Yao yelling about his money like usual, but the tone, typically mockingly belligerent and prodding, was more akin to fury and malice now. _

_"I am telling you, for the last time, we need to do something about that imbecile! He is dragging the whole world down!" The sound of a fist hitting the table followed._

_"Yes. Yes, Yao. We know the bloody wanker needs a good beating. Unfortunately, that's not exactly an option." Arthur answered, his voice oddly cold in place of its usual fire._

_"Well, what _are_ our options? We have to do something!" Francis replied._

_"Why do you expect me to have all the answers? Just because the git bothers me the most doesn't mean I know what to do with him!"_

_Someone coughed, and the room quieted. A softer voice picked up the conversation. Matthew's. "Can everyone just listen for a moment, please? I know you're all angry, and I know why. But you can't just go blaming my brother for everything. He's not the only one at fault here, and you know it. Most of us contributed to this economic mess. And Alfred isn't the only one who's been taking military actions in places he doesn't quite belong." Matt's voice dropped near the end of that sentence. _

_Ivan dared to reply in his usual fashion. "That is true, Matvey. No one is denying that. What we are saying is that your brother does not take things seriously. He never has and never will unless we force him to."_

_Matthew was quiet. Alfred knew why. Mattie had been there at the peak of the financial crisis, when Alfred had beat his fists against the bathroom mirror until his skin was a shredded mess, when he'd thrown up until there was nothing left but stomach acid. He'd been so sick they'd been forced to take him to the hospital. That stay had been kept on the down low. Which meant no one knew but Mattie. Not Kiku. Not even Arthur. _

_After that, how could Alfred _not_ take things seriously? It wasn't like he hadn't been before either. He took his job very seriously. He tried his hardest to manage his immense workload, even when the country was spiraling downward and he was feeling ever blip on the radar. But of course no one would know about that. He was the happy-go-lucky idiot whenever he was in front of them. He was sure Mattie didn't quite believe the farce anymore, and sometimes he doubted Ivan did either, especially after the Cold War. But Ivan would always take a stab at him if the opportunity was given, no matter what he really thought on the matter. And Mattie had always had a soft voice without, unfortunately, a big stick. So there was only so much he could do to quell their anger._

_It only got worse from there._

_Their were cries for "retribution." There were shouts advocating physical harm. He pushed against the wall for support, his stomach churning. Some of them, some of the ones who desired to hurt him…they were his _friends_. He wondered if they always felt like this toward him, if they always had. He'd tried his best not to appear hostile, to appear to be only a docile fool with big dreams. Someone easy to befriend. What if his ruse hadn't worked though? What if it had never worked? Sure, he'd used his mask for alliances, for gain for his own country. Everyone did that, right? But he'd genuinely thought he'd made some real friends alone the way, made bonds with people he could trust._

_Apparently he hadn't. _

_At one point, it became too much to handle. He backed away from the door, tears threatening to fall. Some of the things he heard Francis, heard Arthur say…he couldn't listen to it anymore. He needed air. Now. As he rushed toward the elevator, heart pounding in his chest, breathing shallow, he wondered if this was what a panic attack felt like. He practically stumbled into the suspended box, hastily clicking the button that would take him to the lobby. _

_He tried to compose himself before he reached his destination, gripping the bar that lined the elevator tightly. Too tightly. It started to deform under his freakishly strong hold, and he immediately released it, praying the hotel didn't have a elevator camera. As soon as the damn thing dinged and doors started to roll open, he was out, pushing quickly past a group gathered in front of it. He ignored their angry jabs. He'd had too many today. He didn't need anymore. _

_He finally collapsed in an alley, ducking beside a trashcan. He could imagine their laughter now. Just think, _America_ was curled up beside a trashcan, sobbing like a little child. He'd be the laughingstock of the world. Oh wait, he remembered bitterly, he already was. Sometimes, he thought maybe he should take whole damn thing over and wipe every other single fucking na—_

_He swallowed nervously._

Fight it. Fight it, Alfred. Fight it off like you always have.

_That damned voice. _

_It wasn't really a voice. It wasn't anything in reality or even in his mind. It was no hallucination, and it wasn't his imagination. It had been there since the day he was born, telling him where to go and what to do. He'd listened to its every word for many years. Until Arthur had come. He'd been curious at that time, curious as to what the rest of the world looked like. The voice had warned him then, warned him that if he exposed himself to the rest of the world, that there was no going back. That if he did this, it could have irreparable consequences on both himself and the rest of the world._

_He had been a child then._

_And he had not listened. _

_Often, as he laid awake at night, biting his own tongue until he choked on his blood to distract himself from the voice, he wished he could go back and fix that mistake. After he'd chosen to go with England, the voice had changed. It had morphed from a helpful, kindly conscience into something…twisted. For a while, he had continued to listen to it. _Expand, _it had said_. Destroy them,_ it had claimed as a solution to the "Indian problem." _It's your side of the world. Push them out! _He couldn't recall how many times it had said that back in the day. Before it had decided that the Eastern hemisphere apparently belonged to him as well. _

_Now the voice was a constant reminder of why he needed to be the aloof idiot the world thought he was. He had to act that way, and he needed it to be believable. He was sure that if he slipped up and tried to be smart about everything that the voice would eventually push its ideas through him subconsciously. So that was the end of the that. Nothing intellectual. No bright ideas. The voice had proven many times in the past that it was not, under any circumstances, to be trusted. _

_He took deep breaths, trying to calm himself down and simultaneously ignore the voice. He rocked slowly back and forth. He just needed to relax. It was a hard thing to ask while being in a smelly, dirty alley, but it was the only thing he was asking for, so he expected to happen. Eventually, it did, but the entire ordeal left a dull ache in his chest and a slow burn in his now tearless eyes. He kept his breathing steady, trying to focus on happier things, but everything rounded back to someone he trusted. Every memory rounded back to someone he'd called a friend, someone, who, half an hour ago, had spoken of doing heinous things to him. _

_He wished this would all just go away. _

_All of it._

_The entire world around him._

_No. No that wasn't what he wanted._

_He wanted _himself_ to go away. _

_He wanted to be spirited off from this dreadful world with its lies and its deceit and never ending greed. Never in his life had he wanted something as much as he wanted this._

_He just wanted to get away!_

_And when he'd opened his eyes, he realized he had gotten away. Day had turned to night. Summer had turned to winter. It was like he had gone right through a gap in time and space. _

_And walked straight into a nightmare. _

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><p>They were gaining on him. He didn't know who they all were. He'd caught a glimpse of Francis, of Antonio, but the others were a mystery. He highly suspected one was Vash, as the same masked man had hit him twice with deadly accurate aim. He couldn't imagine for the life of himself, though, what had enticed <em>Switzerland<em> to join the hunt for him. He thought back to his confusion over the change in time and season. Maybe he had jumped into the future, where the nations had finally decided to execute whatever plan they'd come up with to "teach him a lesson."

He didn't have time to think about it though. Something hit him in the back. And exploded into flames. He screamed and fell to the ground, thankfully rolling right into a large puddle of water. He pushed himself back up as fast as he could, but they were closing in now. He took a left. He remembered the layout of Moscow to some degree. His experience from the Cold War had taught him to know the enemy as well as possible. But his pursuers seemed to know it even better.

As he reached the end of the alley he had darted down, a semi-automatic appeared in his vision at the last moment, slamming into his jaw. He felt the bone pop out of its place, and he cried out as he hit the ground. Hard, his vision blurring as the back of his head struck the concrete. As it cleared, he realized who was standing above him.

"T…Toris…" He could barely talk with his dislocated jaw.

The Lithuanian peered down at him in sheer disgust. How could this be Toris? His dreary mind wondered. Toris was kind and calm and collected. He wasn't one for raging violence. He had fought in many wars, but he had always been the same man as long as Alfred had known him. Or had he? Alfred wore a mask. Obviously his "friends" did too when it came to their opinion of him. Perhaps Toris did the same. Perhaps Alfred had never known the real Toris at all.

Well, whoever he had known, it certainly hadn't been _this_ Toris, who snarled at him as he spoke. "I've been waiting for this moment for twenty years, you know? And I intend to make sure you suffer for every second I waited." He raised the gun high, and Alfred closed his eyes, praying for a quick death that he knew wouldn't come. Whatever he had done to make them this angry, to make them hate him like this, he couldn't imagine.

The gun fell, striking his temple and rendering him immediately unconscious.

Then again, most of them seemed to hate him just because he was America.

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><p><strong>Dro: <strong>This is the beginning of my darkest fic ever...which is quite a claim I must say.

**Next Chapter: **America's nightmare continues to get worse as the other nations interrogate him about things he has no knowledge of. He begins to realize that he may not be in his home universe anymore. Meanwhile, back in said home universe, the angry nations wonder where America has run off to.


	2. The Other Side of Them

**Dro: **I'm not sure what disturbs me more about this chapter, the actual physical torture or Alfred's degraded mental state as a result of it. Hm...I'll have to think on this more. Anyway, please read and **review**...and try not to read into this too deeply if you have a weak stomach.

**Chapter Summary: **Alfred suffers at the hands of the nations and becomes convinced he's in the future. Then Ukraine shows up and gives them all quite a shock. (I did not get back the canon world in this chapter as I originally stated.)

**Warnings: **_Results of **Torture** and Descriptions of off-screen Torture_; language; violence (obviously)

**Disclaimer: **I've said it once today, but I suppose I have to say again, don't I? No, I do not own APH. Unfortunately. -glances at actual chapter- Or perhaps fortunately...

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><p>Another dribble of blood ran down his chin from the split skin at the edge of his lips. He really couldn't have cared less about it either. The pain had long overwhelmed him, drowning out all his other sensations. He languidly moved his only working eye upward, eying the door and wondering when they would come back to finish the job. Then he let himself go lax again, his body no longer able to hold his head up. There was honestly nothing he wouldn't have given to be able to fall onto that floor and just rest. But no, he was not allowed even that luxury. His arms were outstretched and bound with thick metal wiring to either wall. He was stuck in a forced sitting position, his throbbing knees long bloodied to beyond recognition.<p>

His right eye wouldn't even open anymore, and occasionally, he wondered if it was even still there. He had lost the feeling on the right side of his face some time ago. For all he knew, the other half of his face may have be _gone_. His hair was matted and stuck to his scalp and face. Some of it had been ripped out of his head during questioning. One of his hands had lost sensation from the tightness of his bindings, and it had been so long that America wasn't even sure it was still a viable appendage (which was terrible, really, because his _other_ hand had already been mutilated by a bullet). Not that it mattered if it was or not. They had made it very clear that he would be quite publicly executed at the end of all this.

He was convinced he was in another time now. That's right! He'd somehow jumped into the future and was facing his inevitable fate at the hands of the nations who hated him! That _had_ to be it. There was no other explanation! Wasn't it funny, too, that he'd happened to be transported right in the middle of the fray, right where his enemies were waiting to tear him apart like wolves? A dry laugh worked its way out of his sore throat, which had long lost its ability to form coherent words. He'd screamed until he could scream no more.

His laugh sounded like a cough.

His back was burned too. The flaming whatever-the-hell-it-was that they'd thrown at him had been so hot it had scorched right through his clothing in seconds. They'd had to cut his shirt and coat _out of_ his skin. And they'd done it while smiling too. Wow, he'd mused, they'd sure been hiding this hatred well for a while. He'd never suspected they wanted to torture him like this. He laughed again. It still sounded like a cough.

Pain blossomed up his arm and down his torso as he started having muscle spasms. They'd shocked him so many times that at one point he'd been convulsing for nearly half an hour. Thankfully, he didn't remember that moment too clearly. Everything had started to blur together after Francis had repeatedly hit him in the head with that bat. He reminded himself to thank the man for that later. He hoped he could at least get a few jabs back at them before they strung him up by the neck or shot him dead or however it was they were planning to execute him. Most of them were Europeans, he reminded themselves. Maybe they would resurrect a barbaric execution method just for his case. They certainly didn't seem to be sparing the interrogation techniques.

He was so confused, too, at what they were asking him. "Where are you planning to attack next?" had been a favorite. "Where are all your missile silos located?" was another that was frequently asked. "What have you ordered your troops to do if you were captured? Another nuclear strike?" had come up at one point. "Attacking" and "_another_ nuclear strike" had struck him as odd. Where was he attacking again? Maybe in this crazy future they were all at war? World War III maybe? Yes, that had to be it! There'd been another world war at some point in the future and now they were all trying to stop him because he was winning and they were angry and…and…why would they ever get into another world war? Surely there'd been enough destruction last time, right?

And, if there was another world war in the future, why were all the European nations against him? And the Asian nations too, it seemed. Toris had mentioned Yao and Kiku several times, though he had missed just what the man was saying. Vash had been repeatedly kicking him in the chest at that point. Wasn't it enough that the man had put a bullet in his chest? Apparently not. Apparently, there needed to be shards of his rib bones shredding his lungs with each breath too. Yes, it wasn't complete until every breath was a step closer to death! No, no! Nothing was too horrible for the American bastard!

As if on cue, the door to his dank, dirty cell opened. The single dim orange light bulb didn't provide much light, and his ruined eye wasn't helping much, but he did manage to raise his head enough to see just who was standing over him. Ah, yes, there they were. Yao and Kiku! Flanked by Vash and Francis. Oh joy, they had _guns!_ Finally, they would shoot him and end this! Oh, how he prayed to God for that!

But it wasn't to be. If his functioning eye had still had tears left, he would have cried right there. They surrounded him, each gaze scrutinizing. Francis was scowling at him deeply, and Alfred noticed that there were wrinkles at the corners of France's eyes. Well, that was weird. Maybe the future-war had done it to him? Yeah, that had to be it. The next world war surely was much more devastating than the previous one! Of course, that's how it always worked.

"Something is not right here." Kiku murmured. "He should not be this easy to capture, this easy to torture." Aw, Kiku thought he was stronger than that! He always knew Japan thought highly of him.

"Do you think it's some kind of ruse?" Yao's calculating gaze roved over his body.

"Well, his injuries certainly aren't. We threw everything we could think of at him. Electricity. Burning. Straight-forward beating. Cutting. We ripped out some of his finger nails for God's sakes." Francis shrugged. "But he still maintained he was ignorant to everything the entire time. I even threatened to cut out his tongue at one point just to see if that would work. And I would have gone through with it too had we not needed him to speak."

"Yes, Francis. We know." Yao rolled his eyes before sharpening his glare and refocusing his attention on Alfred. "Being stubborn, are you? Not that I expected any less. But I can't help but feel we're missing a piece of this puzzle. Perhaps you've put a locator beacon inside your body somewhere to lead your armies to us? Hm, is that it? If it is, I will gladly let you know that we would not object to cutting you into _pieces_ to find it."

"No suck luck, Yao." Vash answered. "We scanned him for every single piece of technology available and then some. We found nothing."

Well, of course they hadn't. He was from the past! He probably didn't know have the technology they were looking for existed! Silly them. He'd tried to tell them he was past America a few times, but they hadn't really believed him. There was something about the date in there too, but he couldn't really remember that part. Had they asked him what date he'd come from?

"Then something strange is indeed going on here." Yao concluded at last. "You could not possibly be so easy to capture. There's something you are hiding from us." Nope, he wasn't hiding a thing! But he knew these people far too well. They'd never buy the truth! Never!

He was vaguely aware that he should be terrified at this, but he felt absolutely no fear. He wondered if maybe Francis had hit him one too many times with that bat. Maybe he'd bruised his amy…amigala…amydilina…whatever the hell that thing was that controlled fear in your brain. Yes, very bruised. It was funny really. He hurt all over and he wanted to cry his eyes out (well, one of them may have already been out; he really couldn't tell if it was there anymore), but he wasn't scared whatsoever. If he still could have talked, he would have told them that just to piss them off. They had already apparently created a secret "hate America" club behind his back in the past (or was it the present?). Surely he was allowed to get the last laugh last over these future desperate bastards who were obviously losing a war with him. And they probably deserved to lose too!

"Maybe we should just threaten him more." Francis whipped out a handgun and pressed the barrel to Alfred's forehead. "We told him we would publicly execute him. But what if we did it right here and now? I mean, taking the time to organize such a public event would give you ample time to have your little drones break you out, wouldn't it? But we don't _have_ to wait. We could kill you with the single pull of a trigger and end all this. Right now." The last two words were growled out through clenched teeth. With each word, the barrel trailed down Alfred's face until it reached his lips, where it was roughly shoved into his mouth. Alfred let himself relax. This might end even sooner than he'd originally thought.

Yao huffed. "I don't think your threats are working, Francis. Not to mention they are totally void and you know it. And _he_ knows it too." He nodded toward the broken, bleeding man on the floor. "We can't execute him until we vote on it. And all of us have to be here for that. We are still awaiting Ivan's return from Canada. As I am sure dear Alfred here already knows, considering he was the reason for Ivan's delay."

Oh _no_, he'd done something to _Russia_? Who would have guessed? He laugh-coughed again. Yao's eyes crinkled in disgust. "You think it's funny, don't you? Toying with all of us? Granted, you always thought it was funny, didn't you? Pledging support secretly for both sides of the world wars? Carefully pitting us against one another until we were so close to being at each other's throats that we couldn't even notice what moves you were making behind our backs? The entire world is just a game to you, isn't it?"

Whoa, hold on! Now what was Yao going on about? Since when had he helped both sides of any war? Now, he would own up to some of the bullshit his government had put him up to in the past, but he wasn't nearly as bad as Yao was describing him to be. Was he seriously just making shit up so Alfred would get angry at him? Well, _that_ wasn't going to work. Not. At. All. He blinked his one good eye. He was started to feel a little drowsy. Francis' gun, now tucked under his chin, was the only thing holding his head up.

"Um, I don't want to pull you away from you _important_ musings, Yao, but I believe America might be _dying_ in front of us right now." Vash pointed out without missing a beat.

For the time since the initial torture, Yao seemed to realize just what condition he was in. He scoffed. "As much as I hate to admit you are right, we should probably treat his wounds. We have still learned nothing from him, and he must live until we vote on his life, however obvious the outcome of that is."

Oh, here was the kicker! They were going to fix him and then break him over and over again. And they called him bad! Hypocritical bastards, the lot of them. If he had had enough energy left, he would have thought on it more, but as it stood, he was just about to pass out. Ah, sleep. How long had it been since he'd had that? He was sure they'd had him down here for at least a few days.

The door to the cell burst open, revealing a panting Ukraine. "Stop! Stop whatever you are doing now. You must see this!"

The men all turned to look at her, apprehensive. "Has his capture signaled an attacked? How bad is it?" Yao asked, his voice tight.

Ukraine shook his her head quickly, holding up a tablet computer. "It is not that. You must see this. Now." She walked briskly over to them and flipped the tablet around. Conveniently, Alfred could see it even with his head flopped to the side like it was. On the screen was a recorded video.

Of himself.

He was dressed in regal black attire, marching purposefully toward the entrance to the capitol building in D.C. Wow, he sure had style in the future. Wait…how was there another him if he'd traveled into the future? On that note, if he had traveled to the future and was about to die here, how had he started a war in the future? Uh…

"I'm not sure what you're showing me here, sweetheart." Francis commented.

"It's Alfred." She answered, clearly exasperated.

"Well, yes. And…?"

"And this video was taken two hours ago!"

Well, that got them thinking. They all slowly turned back around, eying Alfred with wide, unsure eyes. They had been scared before, scared of what he could possibly to do them even while broken and confined. But now they were terrified because they of something they _didn't_ know.

"What…what the hell is going on here?" Francis whispered.

Alfred kept his eyes trained on the screen. This future sure was…

He saw the date on the screen.

Two days after he had come here.

Two days.

This _wasn't_ the future.

Oh…

Then what the hell was it?

Vash crouched in front of him, swallowing thickly. He cupped Alfred's cheeks and straightened his head. "Blink for me. One blink for 'yes' and two for 'no.'" Blinking. Well, that _was_ pretty much the only thing he could do. With one eye at least. "Tell me. Is your name Alfred F. Jones?"

Well, _duh_.

He blinked once.

Vash nodded, exhaling. "Okay. Then answer me this. Are you the Great American Empire?"

Uh…

He blinked twice.

"Oh dear…" Kiku murmured.

Francis shook his head wildly. "Well, if he's not the Empire, then what the hell is he? A clone?"

Vash shook his head slowly. "I have absolutely no idea."

"Well, what do we do with him?" Francis exclaimed.

They all looked at each, astounded, amazed, confused, and petrified at the implications of this, apparently not noticing that he was starting to go into cardiac arrest. _Oh…this hurts a lot more than I thought it would at this point_. He his lolled straight down, and his blurred vision started fading to black. Huh, how funny. He'd just found out he wasn't in the future after all, and yet, he was still going to die. Because of something a _different_ him had done.

A tear slipped down his cheek.

How strange. He was sure he'd lost that ability ages ago.

"Um, guys! I think something's wrong with him!" Ukraine yelped.

Fingers pressed against his throat. "Shit, his heart's giving out! Get emergency care down here! Now!"

_Oh, right…_now_ you get me ca…_

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><p><strong>Dro: <strong>I'm kind of disturbed that some of Alfred's internal crazy banter made me chuckle. By the way, I hope you get what I mean when I say _dark_ now. I said it would be dark, and I meant it.

**Next Chapter: **Alfred, now in the hospital, listens to the other nations as they attempt to figure out what's going on and gets quite the shock as they explain just who the Empire is and what he has done. Meanwhile, the canon world nations are wondering where the hell America has run off to. _  
><em>


	3. The Other Me Which I am Not

**Dro: **Damn, I wrote this entire chapter in an hour and ten minutes. I was on a roll, yo! Then again, it might have been because I was listening to "Fearless" by Audiomachine on repeat throughout the entire thing. Epic music is such a great writing catalyst. Anyway, I've had you guys begging for this for days now, so have at it!

**Chapter Summary: **Alfred wakes up three weeks later and begins to learn about the Empire. Meanwhile, back in Alfred's home universe, Matthew worries over his missing brother's safety.

**Warnings: **Language; Past Violence

**Disclaimer: **Well, I already said it once earlier today, but I supposed I can reiterate: No, I do not own APH. Go reread the last chapter and educate yourself on why that it a good thing.

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><p>To return to consciousness after a brief death was something that Alfred had had much experience with in the past. How many times had his heart stopped beating? During wars? During terrorist attacks? It was a feeling like no other, a sense of absolute relief accompanied by morbid curiosity. A sense that you had once again cheated Fate, slipped free from the cold fingers of Death. It was as refreshing as it usually was painful, almost always associated with extremely severe injuries that took weeks to recover from. He healed fast as a nation. But not fast enough.<p>

This time was no different. He woke up with only one eye functioning, the other covered in bandages along with the right half of his face. There was a breathing tube down his throat, controlling the air that went in and out of his lungs. He'd been on a ventilator twice before. He knew how they worked. It was an uncomfortable feeling, having a tube shoved down your throat, forcing air in and out, refusing to let your body do the work itself (usually because your body no longer had the ability to do so).

His one good eye surveyed the room. It was a standard hospital room, too clean, too white. He had no questions about why he was there. This had not been war. There had been no exploding mortars, no bombs, no missiles that had torn him away from consciousness and taken some of his memories along with it. This had been torture, and there was no forgetting this. Some parts were still blurred: the parts where his conscious had begun to fail him. But most of it replayed in his mind with stark clarity. Each blow. Each shock. Each cut. Each heinous act committed by those he had declared to be his friends and allies many times in the past. All leading up to that one revelation.

Wherever he was, there was another him. And with that, he could surmise that the other nations were _others_ as well. Whatever world he'd been spirited away to was a harsh and volatile place, apparently. The nations who had tortured him looked like they were nearing their limits. They looked older, stressed, fatigued. And from what he'd gathered from this thus far, it was _his_ fault. Not he himself. But this other him. The man dressed in suave black who moved like he owned the world.

Did he?

It was a question he wanted to ask. Just what had this other him done? He heard "nuclear strike" in there somewhere, he was sure. What else? Had this other him gone on a conquest of the world? Had he succeeded? Where these nations a resistance force? There was so much he wanted to know, and he found himself itching to find out. It was another morbid curiosity, wanting to know what made you so evil, wanting to know why the world hated you. Granted, he had discovered why the nations in his own world hated him, but even their disdain of his "stupidity" didn't begin to compare to the desperate hatred these nations had for this other America. Whatever the other him had done was unforgivable.

And he'd unfortunately borne the brunt of the hatred garnered from those unforgivable acts. _Figures. Figures it'd get taken out on me._ He wondered if these people would even bother to apologize. He guessed they wouldn't. He was still America, after all. Maybe he wasn't their _Empire_, no, but he had the same face, the same name. For all intents and purposes, he was the man they hated. They hated him here and _there_, the place he called home.

Home. How badly had he wished to leave his _home_? So badly. He still remembered it clearly, sitting there in an alley behind a trashcan, crying his eyes out pathetically. He'd wished to come _here_. He'd wished himself right into this. He smiled bitterly around the tube sticking out of his mouth. Of course Fate would play this trick on him. Of course. Fate always pulled this shit on him. First there'd been the voice, always tempting him. Then there'd been the nations adverse reactions to his "idiocy," the idiocy that he used to the stifle the voice in the first place. How could he be so stupid as to think that Fate would leave him alone there? Why not take it one step further? He had nothing left to lose at this point. He apparently had no friends. The only one who defended him was his own brother. There was apparently no one else in the world who gave a crap, so who would care besides Canada—who _he_ had constantly made suffer with his boisterous stupidity—if something like this happened to him? He smiled at the irony. Mattie would miss him, would worry about him now that he'd apparently vanished from home, even though it left the Canadian in a much better position.

Yeah, that was just like Mattie.

The door to his room opened, and Toris and Feliks walked in. Feliks froze when caught sight of the single blue eye that had landed on his approaching form. "Toris, he's awake."

Toris caught on, and he quickly walked the rest of the way to Alfred's bedside. "Mr. Jones. Can you hear me?"

Alfred rolled his eyes.

Toris cringed. "My apologies. I know you can't speak. Don't worry though. You should be able to breathe on your own. I'll call the doctor in to remove the tube." He signaled for Feliks to do so. The Polish man nodded and scuttled quickly back out. Toris seemed to be at a loss for what to say, but eventually, he at least attempted an apology. "I…and everyone, for that matter…are _extremely_ sorry. We honestly thought you were the man we were looking for. I know there is no apology in existence that will make up for what we've done, and _anything_ you want, you can have. Anything. Money? Yours. Land? Yours. I swear. Anything at all." He swallowed thickly, and Alfred could see the stress threatening to tear him apart. What in the world had these people been through?

"Do you…uh…do you know long you've been asleep?"

Alfred slowly shook his head.

"Right. It's been three weeks. We…we uh…we almost lost you a few times, but thankfully, you pulled through."

Toris began to ramble out another apology, and Alfred scrutinized him. Frankly, he was surprised that he _was_ apologizing. Wasn't Alfred still technically America? Why was the man being so sincere? Certainly it wasn't possible for them to _not_ bear animosity toward a doppelganger of the man they hated more than anything else in the world. Then again, Toris could always be covering up that animosity. Toris had always been good when it came to hiding his true feelings. He used his skills to hide the lingering pain from the countless years of abuse he'd suffered. Feliks had looked plenty spooked, after all. Yeah, that had to be it.

"Um, anyway. We've got all the best specialists here, so they help you get back up on your feet in no time. And then…uh…" And then what? Had they figured out how he'd gotten to this weird alternate world? "Well, we'll cross that bridge when it comes to it."

The doctor walked in then, his eyes landing warily on Alfred. _Great, even normal people hate me here. _The man worked quickly, pulling the tube out a little _too_ roughly, and Alfred coughed for several seconds, sending a glare at the bastard. The man immediately backed off fearfully, and Alfred raised his eyebrows. Was he that terrifying in this place? Was this so called "Empire" really that frightening? The doctor quickly left the room after the incident, and Alfred adjusted his haggard body into a sitting position, all the while wondering if the man's actions confirmed his suspicions.

Toris offered him some water, and Alfred drank it in sips from a plastic cup held by a shaking bandaged hand. He sat the cup back down as gently as his weakened limb could managed and stared Toris in the eye. "So, did you figure out just what I am yet? Inter-dimensional traveler or some bullshit like that?"

Toris cringed at the harshness in tone. "Um, well, that's one of our top theories at the moment. Francis is still insistent on _clone_ though."

"Yeah…clone. Sure." He frowned.

"Mr. Jones—"

"_Alfred_. My name is Alfred. And you know that."

"Right." Toris swallowed. "My apologies. Alfred, um…where you're from…"

"I'm not an empire, if that's what you're asking. I'm the United States of America. Fifty states. Forty-eight just south of Canada, two disconnected from the mainland. That answer your question?"

Toris nodded slowly. "Oh. Okay. Yes, I understand. You were the States for quite a while here too. One of the theories was time traveler, and we thought that maybe—"

"No. I come from same time. I saw the date when Ukraine showed them the video of me. Same month. Same year. Two days after I got here. Well, I suppose it's _three weeks_, two days now." He honestly didn't mean to come off so angry-sounding, but hell, these people had tortured him to the point of _death_, and he'd be damned if he wasn't going to let them know that, _yes_, he was pissed off about it.

Toris fidgeted where he was standing. "Ah, yes. Okay then. Um, well…"

"So what did I do?"

"Um, what?" Toris looked perplexed.

"You know, not _me_, but the other me. The Empire?"

"Oh…I still don't see what you…"

Alfred shot him an agitated glare. "You know what I mean, Toris. What the fuck has he done to the world to make all of you…like _this_? Worn and weary and looking ready to collapse. I recall Yao mentioning a nuclear strike? And I'm assuming since this other me is an Empire that America consists of a bit…_more_ than what I have back home?"

All the emotion seemed to drain from Toris' face. "Ah, yes…that. Well, it's probably exactly like it sounds. The Empire seeks to take over the world. And he's gotten quite close to succeeding. Russia is the last great remaining nation not under his control. The only reason that the Empire hasn't bombed it yet is because Russia has the bombs to do so back. Mutually assured destruction and all that. The Empire is smarter than to risk his gains over Russia."

Alfred pursed his lips, thoughts coming together in his head like puzzle pieces. "How much of the world are we talking here?"

Toris' eyes were distant. "All of the Western Hemisphere. All of Africa. Parts of Asia. All of Europe west of Germany. Most of the nations you've seen so far are here because they've been displaced, because the Empire has taken them over. They were the _lucky_ ones, Vash, Francis…Some of them weren't able to escape. Some of them were too stubborn to leave. And they suffered for it. Suffered to death."

Alfred _almost_ pointed out the irony, but despite his treatment by these people, he couldn't honestly be angry at _them_. He was angry at them for the torture, sure. He would probably be mentally scarred from that for the next decade or two. But he couldn't be angry at them for trying their hardest to defeat their enemy. After what this other him had done to this place…Plus, if it came down to it, Alfred would be the better nation here. He would be a little asshole around these guys for a while, but he wouldn't condemn them, wouldn't antagonize them like many of them would no doubt antagonize him. He wasn't like that. And he wouldn't let himself become that way.

For many reasons.

To legitimize himself. To fight off that nagging voice in the back of his head. To keep himself as sane as possible. Letting himself head down a road of endlessly antagonizing others wasn't an option. Hell, that had probably played a huge part in this Empire's road to…well, an empire. He shook his head, grunting at the pain on the bandaged side of his face. That reminded him, did he _want_ to know what that looked like? He was becoming more and more convinced he'd lost an eye now, and he was kind of afraid to ask Toris about it. At least he could _feel_ that side of his face again, to some degree at least.

There was another knock on the door, and Alfred grimaced. _Great. Yet another doctor here to torment me further. Or better yet, another one of my torturers here to apologize whilst simultaneously picturing killing a man with my face. Just peachy._ However, the person who entered the room, long coat billowing around him with each step, was not one of the nations who had tortured him. Nor was it a doctor.

It was Russia.

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><p>It had started as another annoyance, Matthew remembered. The nations gathered in the conference room had begun to complain about Alfred's tardiness. Matthew had been relieved at first, as complaining about Alfred being late was a large improvement to what they had been talking about beforehand. He'd tried to stave them off, tried his best to calm them down from their angry frenzy, but every time someone said something nasty about his brother, it seem to re-energize the entire room all over again. Some of the things they suggested made him sick to his stomach, and he wondered how in God's name these people could ever function in normal society. Some of the suggestions were…<em>monstrous<em> and barbaric. Sickening. Disgusting. Things that were war crimes. Things that had been condemned by every country in the world. And yet, the very _nations_ that belonged to those countries seemed perfectly willing to defy those declarations.

It was disturbing if nothing else. As soon as it had become evident that Alfred wasn't showing up, Matthew had immediately excused himself, saying he could go search for his missing brother. He'd had a sinking feeling by this point, a feeling that Alfred had, at one point, been outside that conference room door. He could sense his brother's feelings to a degree occasionally. They were twins after all. And the more and more minutes that ticked by, the more Matthew became convinced that Alfred had heard what the nations were saying about him.

Alfred was trying so hard to keep himself together, and no one but him seemed to notice. How could it honestly not be noticeable that Alfred was truly _trying_ _his best_? Al looked fatigued constantly. He looked like he was being torn apart at the seams. Anyone who heard the news in any form should have known that Alfred was literally being pulled in two directions by his Congress. And that was just adding more and more stress to his terrible economic situation. And yet no one would cut him any slack.

What the hell was the wrong with the world?

That was what he'd been thinking when he'd opened the door to Alfred's hotel room with the spare key, only to find it empty. From there, he'd checked the restaurant downstairs, all the lounge areas, all the other conference and meeting rooms, the _roof_. And nothing. His brother had left the building? He'd searched the immediate area, and with every failure to find his brother, he'd become more and more panicked. Something was wrong here. Really wrong.

And it was still wrong three weeks later. A massive search of Moscow for his brother had turned up nothing. _Nothing_. It was like Alfred had vanished off the face of the Earth. He'd seen his tired and stressed out brother just half an hour before that meeting had started. It wasn't like he could have gotten away that fast. There were no records of him boarding a plane or buying any train tickets to anywhere. The security cameras at the hotel had shown his brother leaving in a rush, pushing through people to speed out of the doors, confirming what Matthew had already suspected. Alfred had heard the nations talking about him and broke down.

But where had he gone? Matthew had been constantly terrified of his phone for the last three weeks, awaiting the call that would tell him his brother's body had been found somewhere, that Alfred had had a completely emotional breakdown and killed himself. But that call never came. No call ever came. The meetings had been canceled. Several nations had sent aid in the search for his brother (despite their previous insistence that they _wanted_ to hurt him). But nothing had been found. Not a trace.

It was looking more bleak and hopeless by the day. The next series of world meetings were supposed to be held in London two weeks from now, and Matthew knew he'd be facing a thousand questions. Questions they wouldn't dare ask him on the phone but seemed perfectly acceptable under the guise of "diplomacy." Had Alfred contacted him secretly? Was his brother just hiding away in Canada in order to recuperate? And on and on it would go. And he would have to sit through it all.

He pressed his palm against the window and stared at the overcast sky. _Where are you, Al? If you're out there somewhere, please call me. Please contact me somehow. Just a letter? A note even? Just give me some kind of sign that you're okay! Please!_

He would sit by that window every day for the next two weeks.

But there would be no response.

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><p><strong>Dro:<strong> I was already nearing 2.5k when I hit the end of the Alfred part of this chapter. Heh. Heh. Longest chapter I've written in quite a while.

**Next Chapter: **A slowly recovering Alfred gets more acquainted with the new world he's in. Meanwhile, the Matthew of that world receives a message.


	4. The Other Brother I Do Not Know

**Dro: **I'm not going to lie. It took me so long to write this because I just didn't feel like it. -shrug- It happens. Don't worry though. Posting this will become consistent as soon as I finish World Powers. Which will be soon. I swear. Don't look at me like that!

**Chapter Summary: **Alfred learns a bit more about the world he's been sucked into. Meanwhile, Parallel!Matthew gets a message.

**Warnings: **Mentions of violence; Language

**Disclaimer: **Dro doesn't feel like writing a disclaimer tonight. She feels like violating copyright law because she's annoyed at the US government and would sincerely like to leave the country and never return.

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><p>His very first thought had been that Russia would shoot him and end everything right there. The Russia in his own world was not known for being very stable, and Alfred couldn't help but think that a Russia in <em>this<em> situation would be even more unbalanced. And yet, by some miracle, Russia did not even whip out a weapon on him. Or scowl at him. Or taunt him. Or proceed toward any of the usual unsavory banter that usual appeared between them. Instead, he briefly looked over Alfred's body before glancing at Toris and motioning him for to leave. Toris took the hint and shuffled quickly out of the room, whispering a half-hearted goodbye.

Alfred would have been scared at being alone in the room with the man had it not been for the fact that he'd already been through hell and back. What could Russia possibly do to him that _they_ hadn't already done? The answer was basically "nothing of consequence." And that was just what he did. Russia lumbered with heavy steps toward the window, peering forlornly at the overcast sky. It always seemed to be gray and overcast here, and the words "nuclear strike" rang clearly in Alfred's mind once again. Had such an attack drastically darkened the world? It was likely.

Russia said absolutely nothing to him for nearly half an hour, and Alfred sincerely wondered if they were just keeping a watch on him to make sure he wasn't a psychopath like his other self apparently was. That was also likely. Alfred ended up fidgeting for most of that half hour, waiting anxiously to see if the Russian had _anything_ to say at all. He hadn't spoken a word since he'd walked into the room, and Alfred conjured up a thousand reasons why that may have been. Everything from "he's plotting how to kill me in the worst way possible" to "he's gone mute" passed through his head. Eventually, he just gave up guessing and watched the clock on the wall mark each second off.

Then Russia spoke.

"How is your Matvey?" He asked calmly.

Alfred blinked a few times before registering the question. Had the first thing Russia really asked him about been Matt? Apparently so. He frowned. "Mattie's fine. Why do you ask?"

"He is free and independent?"

Alfred raised his one visible eyebrow. "Yes." Where was Russia going with…_Oh._ Of course. The _Empire_ must have had Mattie here. The first place a psycho version of himself would have gone would certainly have been to his peaceful northern neighbor, right? A large landmass. A ton of resources. So, then the Matthew here was… "I'm guessing Mattie wasn't one of the _lucky ones_ that Toris was telling me about earlier?" The Matt here was…dead?

"_Nyet_. Your brother is in a far worse position than death at this point."

Alfred glared at him, but the Russian refused to turn and face him. His eyes never left the window. "And just what do you mean by that?"

"Exactly what I say. Matvey has been in the Empire's clutches for some time now. He's is making due. He always does. Matvey is a brave and cunning boy. But I fear his captivity is starting to break him down, fear it is chipping away at him slowly. I fear he will not be the same Matvey when we finally get him back." He pressed his forehead against the glass. "_If_ we get him back."

"Wow, you're sure optimistic." Alfred noted blandly.

Russia growled under his breath. "You know nothing of what I have been through."

Alfred snorted. "You're kidding, right? Your allies tortured me to the point of death, and you dare to say my experience can't compare to yours? You're a dick in my world too, Russia, but at least there you know when you're facing an equal."

Russia slammed his fist into the glass, and it cracked. He whipped around, sneering angrily. "Do _not_ pretend we know each other. _Ever._ Whatever relationship you have with me where you come from is null and void here. Here, you are my enemy. Here, you are the man I want to kill most in the world. And while I cannot raise my hand against _you_, I will _not_ permit you to belittle me." He growled. "You should count yourself very lucky. It was by my order that our medics saved your life. Most of them were perfectly content to let you die!"

Alfred froze. The conference scene abruptly replayed in his head. He went lax, slumping on the bed. He really was lucky, wasn't he? Lucky his own allies and friends hadn't gotten their hands on him. What if they'd snapped and actually gone through with their threats? He had an advantage here. These nations didn't know what an "idiot" he was, so they didn't have the grounds to be cruel to him. Granted, if he stayed here long enough, he was sure they'd get tired of his "stupidity" too. And these nations had already shown they were perfectly fine with torturing him to the fullest extent. He was starting to doubt that them saving his life had been a good thing at all. Here, he was walking on thin ice. At home, the ice had already cracked. It seemed he was doomed no matter where he ended up.

"I…" His voice caught.

In the time it had taken him to think, Russia had moved across the room like a ghost, coming to tower over him just inches from the bed. He looked troubled, and there was a spark of regret in his eyes. "I…I am sorry. I did not mean to let my anger get the best of me. I am very…stressed at this time."

Alfred was confused as to why the Russian was apologizing until the tear dripped from his chin. Oh, he had started crying at some point. Well, that was stupid. Why was he crying? He'd cried enough from this already. He shook his head. "No. Go ahead and be mad at me. I can deal with it."

Russia's eyes widened, and something seemed to click in his head. "You…you are not _well liked_ where you come from?"

"Well, that's one way to put it." He muttered.

"Why?" He whispered.

Alfred shrugged. "I don't act too smart, usually. I guess they just don't like that I can be so dumb and be a superpower at the same time."

"And they…what, belittle you at meetings?"

He smiled. "Only at meetings where I am not present, as I recently learned."

His lips parted, but the Russian did not reply. The regret intensified, and he turned away, gazing back out of the window again. After a few moments, he sighed deeply. "Forgive me. I should not have snapped at you. And I implore you not to 'deal with it' from anyone. If anyone gives you any hassle, let me know. I will 'deal with it' personally."

Alfred peered up at the tall Russian, perplexed. Where had Russia's sudden change of heart come from? His best guess was pity. Why else would anyone offer to defend _him_ of all people? He shook his head. Russia was bound to regret this move. It would cost him face among both his allies and his subordinates. It didn't matter that he _wasn't_ the Empire. He _looked like_ the Empire, and that was enough for the majority of them to hate him. They would try to hide it, he knew, at least at first, per orders no doubt. But their façades would crack and break over time, and their true emotions would come at him from all sides in both subtle and…_not…_ways. He had recently learned that lesson from home.

There was another half hour of silence that followed that. Alfred attempted to think of a topic, but all he could come up with up with were more questions about the state of this world. And he was sure that Russia didn't want to talk about those things. Then again, he really didn't want to talk to Russia anymore, but he felt awkward sitting there with the man standing so close to his bedside, staring wistfully out the window. What was it with him and these strange reveries?

"Are you well enough to be moved?" Russia asked suddenly.

Alfred jumped at the sound of his voice in the otherwise silent room. They didn't even have him hooked up to a heart monitor, he noted sourly. "Um, I don't know. My body is pretty messed up. I'm not even sure I can sit up straight."

"I will be right back." He answered, as if he hadn't heard a single word Alfred had said. He turned and headed for the door, and Alfred watch him, bewildered. Everyone here acted so different than they did at home. And that seemed to, obviously, include himself. Both of them. His other self was a psychotic mastermind out to take over the world. The mental image he got from that description was quite disconcerting. And then there was himself. He hadn't cracked a wide smile or laughed obnoxiously the entire time he'd been here. Of course, if he had, then the these people would probably think he was every bit as psychotic as his other self. But his failure to wear his normal mask meant that these people didn't know it. He couldn't hide here like he could at home. And that made him feel…well…naked in a sense. He didn't like his true self being scrutinized. Especially when his emotions were all out of whack. That was a recipe for disaster. If he couldn't control his emotions, then he couldn't properly control the voice.

And if he lost control of that, then these people really would have a problem.

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><p>He tilted his head upward, blinking as the attendant powdered his face lightly. Another stood to his right, carefully curling his hair with an iron. They cooed and complimented and muttered all sorts of things that Matthew considered utterly meaningless. He looked at himself in the mirror, watching the way the light reflected off his hair, off his eyes. As soon as they were done, he shooed them away and rose to his feet, checking his full appearance. He worked out any wrinkles in his clothing, smoothing the soft fabric down. They had dressed him all him in white today, and while he quite liked the effect, he groaned softly at their not-so-carefully veiled attempts to gain favor with his brother. Alfred <em>loved<em> white. But only when Matthew wore it.

He paced slowly across the room. He hadn't any business with the rest of the household today, so he sank into a chair next to his window and gazed out at the sunny day. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Alice would bring him his breakfast in exactly four minutes and twenty-three seconds. She was never late. Peter would then bring him the day's paper approximately ten minutes after that. He wasn't always on time. For lunch, Naomi would bring him far too many choices, as she always did. Then Peter would return half an hour later with all of today's mail, not that anything was actually for him. It would lay idle on Alfred's desk for the remainder of the day. Or not, in the case of today. If the women had dressed him in white, then his brother was coming home today.

He sighed. He never knew when Alfred was returning until someone told him so. He always felt like he was the last person to get news around here, though he supposed it was partially his own fault. Without a country to help run, he really had no desire to do anything at all. If he took some initiative, he could have easily been the first person to know everything. He considered doing that on a regular basis, but he rarely ever got around to it. Most of his daily activities consisted of surfing the internet, writing poetry, reading, and painting. Only one of those involved leaving the room, and that was only because Alfred had insisted that Matthew be given his own private art studio. Matthew would have declined such a ridiculous thing—he wasn't _that_ into art—but he was rarely in a position to decline anything from Alfred.

On cue, Alice arrived with a cart full of overly elaborate plates and silverware. She uncovered a full breakfast with a multitude of choices, and Matthew picked out his usual: pancakes with maple syrup. He slipped off his pristine white gloves and placed them on the side of the table. Despite the fact that he considered this clothing far too flashy for his taste, he still respected the fact that it cost a great deal and was hard to wash. He nodded at Alice and thanked her, and as she retreated, she nodded back. He ate his breakfast slowly and carefully and sipped his coffee, eying the sugar bowl the entire time.

When he was finished, he gently lifted the bowl, revealing a folded piece of yellow paper underneath. He snatched it up and unfolded it, reading it quickly.

_There has been a surprising—and odd—development, Matvey. A double of the Empire has appeared here in Moscow. We are not yet sure whether it is some kind of ploy by the Empire or whether it is something that occurred via otherworldly means. Currently, this strange double of the Empire is in a coma, as he was roughly interrogated when we first captured him in the city, under the thinking that perhaps it _was_ the Empire attempting some kind of strange plot. I honestly have no idea how this development came to be, and until we have a definite answer, I will make no guesses. I will pass along more information to you when I have it._

_- Your dear friend,_

_Ivan_

Matthew reread the note several times. There was a double of his brother? He wracked his brain for any reason that Alfred may have created—in some way—a double of himself. No, that was not Alfred's style. Alfred loved himself, surely, but he would never risk creating any sort of equal to himself. So this had to have come about some other way. He wondered what this double was like. Did he act like Alfred? Did they look _exactly_ the same? He hoped Ivan would discover more soon. He was quite curious.

After he'd practically memorized every word on the page, he pulled out a match and burnt it to ashes, letting them fall helplessly into the remains of his coffee. He reached over and rang the bell for Alice to return to take his food away and leaned back in his chair just as Peter came in with the paper. Matthew thanked him politely for it and unfolded it, skimming the headlines for anything interesting. Nothing caught his eye today, and he ended up tossing the thing aside. He subsequently spent the rest of the day in his usual fashion.

It wasn't until after dinner that Alfred arrived. He could hear the fanfare all the way from the room, and he waited silently as his brother slowly made his way there. The first thing Alfred did when he returned from a trip was to say hello to his brother. Always. No exceptions. He rose to his feet just as Alfred neared the door, the "servant" stationed outside it bidding him welcome. The door swung open silently on its well-polished hinges, and Matthew put on a bright smile as his eyes met his brother's.

Alfred stood in the doorway for several seconds, his smile widening with each passing moment. He was dressed to a tee in his usual style, elegant and sleek black military garb with a gold-accented overcoat. He stepped silently inside their room and closed the door behind him. Matthew stood there motionlessly, letting Alfred look him over. Alfred liked to look at him.

"Mattie." He said breathlessly. "You dressed in white today!"

There was the cue. Matthew knew exactly what would happen next in the exact order in which it would happen. Alfred would slip his coat off and hang it on the rack, begin moving swiftly across the room, slip off one of his two black leather gloves—the _right_ one, to be specific—and then he would caress Matthew's cheek with his bare hand, look him in the eyes _and_—

Alfred began to move, exactly as Matthew had predicted. He closed the last few feet between them, raised his hand, and cupped Matthew's cheek with it, gently caressing the finely powdered cheek with his thumb. "Mattie. I've missed you." He leaned in until their noses brushed, their eyes meeting at the exact same level, deep, bright sky blue on soft, coy violet. Matthew's lips parted just as Alfred closed the remaining gap between them, and they met in what was nothing more than a semblance of the middle ground.

—_and_ then they would kiss.

* * *

><p><strong>Dro:<strong> -whistles innocently- I'm not giving away anything. Nope. Nada.

**Next Chapter: **Alfred discovers something shocking about someone he cares about. Meanwhile, back in Alfred's home universe, things are heating up as accusations concerning Alfred's disappearance emerge among the nations.


	5. The Other Brother's Other Side

**Dro: **Sorry for the long wait, guys. I was determined to finish World Powers first. And I did! So now this is being incorporated into the rotation. (Sorry about pushing the other two back though. But this hadn't been updated in a week, so...) Anyway, have at it like usual!

**Chapter Summary: **Alfred discovers something shocking about someone he cares about. Meanwhile, Matthew begins to unravel and accusations begin to fly as Alfred's disappearance puts strain on the world.

**Warnings:** Violence; Language

**Disclaimer:** If I've said it once, I've said it a million times. I am poor! I cannot afford to pay millions of dollars to buy the rights to a (hilarious) Japanese parody, people!

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><p>He had forced himself to grin and bear it for several minutes, each bump, each turn, each tug pulling and shifting his injuries to the point where he could barely keep himself from crying out. He was partially convinced that this was Ivan's personal attempt at torture, as the man seemed to be winding through an endless labyrinth of hallways that apparently led to nowhere in particular. Alfred was almost sure he'd passed the same old man on a gurney twice. But he managed to keep himself together until Ivan hauled his wheelchair into the elevator and took him up two floors. When he started pushing Alfred out into yet another hallway, the poor injured man couldn't help but groan.<p>

"My apologies for the long ride. Am I being too rough with you?" Ivan asked calmly.

"No." Alfred answered simply. It was somewhat of a lie, but he didn't have any intention of pressing Ivan's buttons again. He'd been beaten up enough here already to fully recognize that these people were serious business and that he was in great danger. The last thing he wanted to do now was set off one of the strongest nations he knew. Finally, Ivan stopped next to a room with a closed door. Alfred gazed at the door, curious. Ivan had still not told him the purpose of this painful trip.

Ivan released his chair and slowly approached the door, Alfred watching with interest as the Russian opened it delicately, as if he was afraid of breaking something. Alfred was met only with the view of another too white hospital room, the bed shielded from his view by a drawn curtain. Ivan returned to his wheelchair and wheeled him in, stopping midway to close the door behind them. He slid by Alfred's wounded form and grasped the curtain, seeming to hesitate at the last second.

"I…I honestly do not know why I am showing you this. Perhaps I wish to prove my dedication to my cause or to show you just how serious the threat of the Empire is. I…I am unsure of my own actions at this point." He faced the curtain, refusing to turn around. "But what I do know is that you are not the Empire. I have seen it in your gaze, that you lack what it is that makes him the Empire. That sordid ambition. That endless hunger for _more_. Whatever it is that has led him to do this to us. You lack it, and thus, I believe—truly—that you may be trusted. But be warned. Many would call me stressed and delusional by this point, and many will be out to get you along the way. I may not always be there to protect you, though I will try." He took a deep breath. "But enough talking, da? I came here to show you something, not tell."

Alfred didn't reply, and he watched, mesmerized, as Ivan drew back the curtain. He saw the line of the person legs under the sheet first, followed by a pale hand connected to an IV, followed by…He released the air he hadn't realized he'd been holding in a deep sigh of pity. This world had lost so much already. And now this. He struggled to wheel his chair closer, and Ivan, noticing his plight, helped him the rest of the way over. He reached out his own bandaged hand and gently grasped the sheet-white one resting limply on the bed. He squeezed it softly, and he searched the man's face for any kind of response.

There was none.

_Oh, Arthur…_

Arthur's eyes were closed, and he looked every bit as peaceful as one long deceased. But he wasn't dead. At least according to the heart monitor that indicated a steady pulse. But his skin, his pallor…he _looked_ dead. He looked more dead than Alfred himself looked, yet there was not a single visible mark on his skin. It was as if he'd fallen into a deep sleep, never to awaken again.

"Ivan, what…?" His voice grew tight. This was Arthur. Arthur, who, while obviously bearing animosity toward him now, was still the man who had raised him, was still the man that Alfred had always loved and admired on some level. Even now. He swallowed thickly. "What happened?"

Ivan had made his way over to the window once more, seemingly fixated on some indefinite point in the sky that Alfred could not fathom. "The Empire bombed London with a powerful missile. It destroyed everything and killed everyone. There was nothing left but charred ruins. Arthur, at that time, was with us on a mission in Canada." Ivan's voice hitched. Alfred finally let his eyes drift away from Arthur's sleeping face, and he realized that Ivan's shoulders were shaking. He was holding back _sobs_. For the life of himself, Alfred couldn't figure out why, but…Ivan resumed speaking before Alfred could put his finger on it. "He just…dropped. One moment he was up and talking, and the next he was like this."

"Like…this?" His gaze settled back on Arthur's still, pale form.

"Comatose." Ivan clarified.

"Oh." He had guessed as much, though he couldn't possibly have known the cause. "And he hasn't recovered at all since that time? How long ago was it?"

"Going on two years."

Alfred stared at Ivan's back. "Two…_years_?" How could Arthur have been in a coma that long? If a nation did not die, the odds of them not recovering were…almost impossible. They recovered from _everything_. Sickness. Terrible injury. Alfred _would_ eventually recover from the injuries of his torture. If a nation was not dead, then they would eventually heal. They always did. There may have been a few new scars, a few new aches and pains, but…they didn't just…_not_ recover. "I…I don't understand. Shouldn't he have…woken up by now?"

Ivan shook his head. "He will not. Because his capital is still in ruins. The Empire is not stupid. He knew that if he allowed London to rebuild that Arthur would recover, and seeing as we have Arthur here…"

Alfred immediately understood. "He would just heal and keep helping you…"

"Exactly. So he refused to allow a soul to touch a single brick there. It is still nothing but a wasteland now, a giant, black hole right where Arthur's heart is. Even though the land has now been conquered by the Empire, it still remains tied to Arthur until his death. But he will not die like this. He will just linger…for what may very well be forever if we do not defeat the Empire."

"That's…" That had to be one of the most terrible things Alfred had ever heard in his entire life. How could this Empire be _himself_? He would _never_ have thought to do something so cruel. Never. Especially not to someone like Arthur. Arthur was one of those people that was _untouchable_ in his mind. How could this other version of himself be so different in that respect? Had they not been raised by the same man, not been born and bred on the same ideals? What was _different_? He couldn't imagine something that would cause such an insane gap between their personalities, their desires, their abilities.

Ivan laughed bitterly. "He did it to get at _me_, you know?"

"W-what?"

"The Empire. He didn't strike at London to hurt Arthur. He didn't need to. In fact, it would be far more advantageous to him to use London as a strategic location. But he won't. Because Arthur was never the point. I was. He hurt Arthur to hurt me. And…" He sighed. "And it worked pretty damn well, did it not?"

"I…I don't understand." He felt like he was missing a very important piece of information here. Something was wrong with this equation. Before he could ask, however, Ivan had marched back around the bed and quickly pulled him away from the dozing Arthur. Alfred reluctantly let go of the pale, lifeless hand.

Ivan whispered something in Russian that sounded suspiciously like a prayer before he leaned down and kiss Arthur softly on the lips. Alfred's cheeks started to heat up as he realized what the missing piece of his puzzle was. Ivan and Arthur were _together_. At first, he was convinced he had to be wrong. That was the most absurd relationship he'd ever heard of in his life, and yet, as he watched Ivan's actions, he realized very well that he was not mistaken. Ivan mumbled something against Arthur's lips before moving up to his forehead and placing a long, chaste kiss on the deathly white skin. Then he rose again and straightened up. Alfred caught a glimpse of an intense pool of emotions in the man's violet irises, but the Russian drained it all away before he got a good look at it.

Ivan was their leader, he'd realized a while ago. He had to keep himself together. He had to appear strong to each and every person he came across, which usually meant all day, all the time if the amount of activity in this place was any indication. Alfred began to realize that there were so many levels of suffering going on in this world that he could never begin to comprehend them all. Loves had been lost. Friends had been killed. Allies had had their countries demolished by the Empire. That man, that other _him_, had torn this world apart in ways that Alfred could hardly imagine. And he knew very well that this was just the tip of the iceberg.

This was just the beginning of the Empire's atrocities.

And that fact, quite possibly, was what scared him the most.

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><p>Matthew sat alone in his room, staring at the overcast sky. It seemed to be that way all the time lately, gray and bleak and hopeless. Alfred had been missing for more than a month now. His brother had quite literally vanished off the face of the Earth, and for all he knew, Alfred could very well never be seen again. They had searched and searched and searched. And they had found <em>nothing<em>. All his men had come crawling back to him with a half-assed apology about how they'd tried their best. He'd snapped at some of them, and though he regretted that, he hadn't been able to calm himself down enough to apologize.

He was always on edge now. Terrible things had been seeping into his mind over the past couple weeks. And those thoughts were beginning to take root. He had become paranoid now. He was suspicious of everyone who called him on the phone, of every official that showed up at his office, especially the foreign ones. He didn't even want to consider the other nations right now. He'd had so many nightmares—just over the last few days alone—that he had just about convinced himself that one or more of them was hiding brother somewhere, heinously torturing him. They had threatened it, hadn't they? They had threatened to _punish_ his brother, had they not? So what if one of them had gone through with it? What if one of them had taken advantage of Alfred's emotional state and kidnapped him? What if Alfred's disappearance had just been the beginning? If someone _had_ done something like that, then they would have already had _five_ weeks to tear his brother to pieces.

For all he knew, Alfred was dead in a ditch somewhere thousands of miles from home. He leaned forward, staring blankly out the window. He didn't know what it was his eyes kept searching for, only that they kept failing to find it. Some part of himself still felt like Alfred would walk through his hotel room door any second, smiling and chuckling. But that was just a dim fantasy in the face of a grim and unforgiving reality. He stood up and straightened his tie. He didn't want to deal with a single other nation, but he had no choice today. Meetings. Meetings. Even when the most powerful nation alive was missing in action, they still had to have their damned meetings. He wondered why they even bothered. He would give it five minutes before it devolved into senseless bickering. Sometimes it was even less.

He about-faced and marched out of his room. He was not in the mood for this bullshit today. And he would be sure to make them know it. He had been the unnoticed voice of reason for far too long. Today, he would be one to incite the mass chaos if they indeed intended to make it one of _those_ meetings. He would not sit back and let them bicker about his brother as if he was deaf and mute. They had seemed to believe him so for far, far too long. He would change all of that.

He burst through the doors loudly, starting the nations already assembled. Most of them did a double-take, no doubt mistaking him for his brother at first glance. He ignored them and trudged toward his seat, loudly dropping his briefcase to the floor. Some of them dared to meet his burning gaze, and it quickly frightened them off. He sank into his chair, frowning deeply. Arthur stared at him, obviously confused, and Francis sent him a questioning stare. Matthew ignored it.

When they were all finally present, Germany called the meeting to order. "Well," he sighed, "I suppose our first manner of business should be America, no?"

Matthew glared at him, and German dared to counter with a hard stare. "I suppose." Matthew conceded.

"Has there been any new information?" Switzerland asked.

Matthew shook his head. "None from my side of the world. But I was hoping to ask the same of you all. Surely you've heard _something_, considering he disappeared in this hemisphere."

Turkey growled. "And just _what_ are you implying?"

Matthew narrowed his eyes. "I implied nothing, only stated a simple fact. You really shouldn't be so defensive, Sadik. It makes you look rather suspicious."

He slammed his hands on the table. "Suspicious about what? You think I took America?"

Matthew scowled. "I didn't say anything like that. You're the one bringing up kidnapping." He raised an eyebrow.

Netherlands suddenly jumped in. "Whoa, Matt! No one's talking about kidnapping here. Unless…has there been any indication that something like…happened?" The nervousness in the room seemed to visibly rise.

Matthew countered calmly. "I already said there was no new information from my side of the world. I just though perhaps I should be the one to…well, _raise concerns_. My brother would never abandon his own country. Despite what you all may think, he's not stupid, and he's not weak. He would _not_ have vanished of his own accord, regardless of what you have to say about him."

"Excuse me?" Russia asked. "What are you referring to, Matvey?"

Matthew snort. "Please. Have you forgotten the last meeting so quickly? Was it not you all prattling on about how you'd like to _rape_ and _torture_ my brother?"

"And you think we would actually do such a thing?" Russia replied angrily. "Words are words, Matthew. And that is all they are. No nation on this planet is foolish enough to do such things to a superpower."

"Foolishness. Is that all it would be? Not heinous? Not disgusting? Not repugnant? But foolish? So, in your mind, if it wasn't _foolish_, then it would be okay?"

Russia began to pale. "I…I did not mean to imply such a thing. I was only stating a fact. No one would risk kidnapping your brother for any reason."

"And yet, he's mysteriously vanished and hasn't contacted anyone. Don't you think that he'd let his own brother know where he went if he'd vanished of his own accord? Or how about his government? They're just about frantic now, you know? Their _nation_ is _missing_. Alfred wouldn't do that, and you know it. So until someone comes up with a reasonable answer to this little conundrum, I'm going to be forced to sit and concoct all kinds of nightmarish ideas about what could be happening to my brother right now. Which is exactly what I've been doing for the last five weeks!" He spat.

Russia recoiled like he'd been burnt. "Matvey, please…calm yourself. We are all doing our best to find America. And…and despite what anger-fueled things we may have said last meeting, none of us would ever consider implementing such things in reality. We are not _monsters_, Matvey. And _you_ know that."

Matthew met Ivan's solid gaze. He was refusing to back down. "Fine, if that's what you believe, then so be it. But let me tell you something. If my brother is never seen alive again, then this world will suffer more problems than you can possibly imagine. If we find his body somewhere, then those problems will increase ten fold. Alfred's government is not patient nor forgiving, and _all of you_ know that. So I will warn you all now. If any of you are responsible for my brother's disappearance, I will find out, and I will take action against you. And right beside me will my brother's military. So you all better think damn hard, and if you have a _sudden insight_ about my brother's circumstances, then please, _do tell_." He snatched his briefcase and strode out the room before anyone could get another word in.

He had never been an antagonist toward the other nations, which was something most of them could not say. But he would willingly give up that honor if it meant finding his brother. He would give up _anything_ to find his brother, and he intended to do just that. No matter what the cost.

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><p><strong>Dro:<strong> Ouch, Mattie. That was harsh. Wow, he's falling apart quickly, isn't he?

**Next Chapter:** After another (thankfully) uneventful month passes by for Alfred, something happens that changes everything and threatens to split the resistance in two.


	6. The Other World That is Not Mine

**Dro: **-yawn- Wow, these chapters are long. Eh, whatever. Well, here you go! Enjoy another chapter of angsty goodness! Oh, and I threw a dash of humor in this time.

**Chapter Summary: **A month of healing and recovery passes for Alfred. Unfortunately, it's followed by something that could quite possibly tear the resistance apart.

**Warnings: **Language; Violence

**Disclaimer: **Dro doesn't own APH. Or McDonald's...

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><p>Alfred sat up, grunting as he stretched, the remaining stitches in his torso complaining loudly. He'd be more than happy when they could remove the rest of those bastards, though with the way the doctors typically treated him, he kind of wanted to try some self-surgery. Couldn't possibly turn out much worse. He swung his still-healing legs over the bed and hauled himself to his feet, using the nightstand for support. He'd had more than a few attempted walking accidents over the past few weeks, and some of them had accompanied additional injuries—several in places he didn't really want think about right now.<p>

He glanced at the mirror across the room. His bare torso was littered with barely healed cuts, fresh scars, and faded yellow bruising. He let his fingers travel up and brush his face. He had been quite pleased to discover that he did indeed still have his right eye, thought his face had taken quite a beating. He felt like his nose was slightly _off_ and his jaw tended to snap a little when he would eat or talk. But hey, he was breathing and walking and _able_ to eat and talk on his own, so he supposed he should at least be thankful for that. Things could have easily gone the opposite direction. He could have lost limbs. He could have been _dead_, obviously. But those things hadn't come to pass, so he figured he'd just push those thoughts away into that little dark corner of his mind that he tried his best to ignore and keep pressing forward.

Wherever forward was.

He'd started considering that about two weeks ago. Once his pain had begun to fade and he started going through rehab to get his body working again, he'd started wondering what he was going to do once he was discharged from the hospital. This wasn't his _world_, and he had no clue whatsoever how he'd gotten to this place. And along with that little bit of ignorance came the fact that he had no idea how to return home. For all he knew, he could have been stuck here….forever. He shook his head and slipped on the plain white cotton shirt that Ivan had been generous enough to buy him a couple weeks ago, along with an equally plain pair of jeans. It appeared things in Russia weren't going too swell. _Hm, wonder why that is?_ He rolled his eyes.

That was all he'd been hearing for the last month. The Empire this. The Empire that. It made sense, of course, that they would talk about their current enemy, but he knew that many of them, especially Francis, made sure to mention the Empire as many times as was possible in the span of sixty seconds as soon as Alfred walked into hearing range. Francis was still under the impression he was some kind of trick sent by the Empire to fool them. Alfred had restrained himself from making any angry retorts or resorting to violence. He didn't want to give Francis anything to use against him. But now many of the other nations had taken to goading him the same way, and it was starting to wear on his nerves. He had had enough of this shit in his own world. Hell, that was why he'd wished to leave in the first place. So why did he have to have it even worse here? Was it some kind of _lesson_ from a cosmic deity? _'This is how things could be, Alfred!'_ He imagined a deep voice saying to him. He snorted. That would be just his luck, wouldn't it?

He slowly limped his way over to the mirror, snagging the hairbrush from its carelessly picked place on the chair next to it. He quickly brushed his blond mop, muttering to himself about how it was a hell of a lot easier to do so now that the massive bandages around his face were gone. All that remained—besides the slightly _off_ things—was some bruising. Just as he sat his brush back down, there was a knock on the door. He flicked his eyes toward the clock. Ah, it was Ivan time. The man visited him three times a day, once in the morning, once for lunch, and once late at night.

"Come in." He replied as the knock picked up again. Ivan strode through the door, a brown bag in his hand. Alfred blinked at it for a few seconds, uncomprehending.

"Breakfast." Ivan answered simply. "I will not be able to have lunch with you today, I'm afraid. I have to take a trip to St. Petersburg to meet with my top military officials. Hopefully I will return quickly, but I would not get my hopes up. My officials have been…well…emotional wrecks lately. The Empire keeps gaining ground, and the closer he gets to Russia, the more afraid they become. I will attempt to calm them down, but I'm unsure I will be able to."

Alfred nodded silently and walked over to the table in the corner, motioning for Ivan to follow him. The larger man sat down across from him, and Alfred watched as he pulled out a few things from—who would've guessed—McDonald's.

He stared, suspicious. "Now, how is it that you have an American company operating in Russia at this point?"

Ivan chuckled. "We have since made a _Russian-_owned version."

"Ah, but that takes away all the greatness that is McDonald's!" He pouted childishly.

Ivan raised an eyebrow.

"What?" Alfred sank back into his chair. It slowly dawned him, and his cheeks started to flush. He'd begun to slip the idiot mask back on. "Sorry."

"_Nyet_. It is nice to see you relax."

He frowned. "That wasn't real. It was just a force of habit."

Ivan started. "…That was…I see." He pushed some food over to Alfred's side of the table. "So that is what you meant by the other nations think you are a fool? It is something you do on purpose?"

He nodded slowly.

"Why?"

The question sounded so simple, but to Alfred, it was infinitely complex. "For a lot of reasons. Like this, for example." He waved his hands, indicating everything around him. "I didn't want to become…_this_."

Ivan, about to stuff part of a biscuit into his mouth, froze. "You refer to the Empire?"

"Yes."

Violet eyes narrowed. "And why is it you believe you could ever become like him?"

"Not a belief. A fact." He stared out of the window at the overcast sky. He was sure he had not seen the sun in the entire time he'd been here.

"And how do you know this?" Ivan's voice had taken on a nervous edge. They had talked plenty in the last month—mostly about the Empire and what he had done to the world recently—but they had not talked about _this_.

"The ambition to do this kind of thing to the world, the heartlessness, the cold logic…it's all in me. I just don't acknowledge it. Because I was afraid of something like _this_. I was afraid of turning my friends into enemies, of warping the world I loved so much without realizing it until it was too late. But…" He sighed. "It's hard to explain, but there's a…_voice_ inside my head, and it tells me to do things. I've ignored it since I was little, and I've gotten pretty good at it. But I was always afraid that if I acted too intelligently, that if I tried to act logically, rationally, strategically when dealing with other nations that…that the damned voice would begin to slip its own ideas in there. I was afraid to risk it. So I…"

"So you crafted a mask of ignorance and foolishness to command your actions instead." Ivan sat his fork down, contemplative eyes boring holes in the wooden table. "You are…not nearly as much like the Empire as you believe."

Alfred turned away from the window. "What?"

The Russian shook his head, his hair falling into his eyes. "The Empire would never hesitate to follow his darkest ambitions. Whether he has this same, twisted 'voice' that you do or not…From day one he has been ruthless and cunning. Although no one knew of it until it was far too late to stop him. Like you—I will admit—he wore a mask. But he did not wear it to protect _us_. He wore it to _harm_ us. And it worked. We were all so convinced he was kind and generous, all the way up the World War."

"Which one?" Alfred muttered.

Ivan cocked his head to the side. "What do you mean? There was only one."

Alfred's lips parted, but he could think of nothing intelligent to say. "Oh…" was all that came out.

"There was more than one in your world?"

"Two, actually. One in the early 1900's, the other around the 1940's. There was a economic recession in the middle. The Great Depression?"

Ivan shook his head. "I have never heard of such a thing."

"Really?" Well, this was different. Of course, just because a world was some kind of parallel reality didn't mean it was exactly the same. Actually, wasn't the point of alternate realities that they were, well, _different?_ His head buzzed with the odd information as he attempted to process it. He had been under the (obviously wrong) assumption that the only major difference between this world the other had been, well, the other _him_. But apparently the worlds diverged much further back. "So, um, about you." He mumbled as he chewed his food. "Did you have a revolution in the twentieth century?"

Ivan nodded. "Da_. _Right after the Great War ended."

"Bolshevik?"

Ivan's brows furrowed. "What?"

"The revolution. Bolshevik? Reds versus Whites? Lenin? Stalin? USSR? Ring a bell?"

Ivan stared at him like he'd gone crazy. "_Nyet_. I have no idea what you are talking about."

Huh, _non-_Soviet Russia. What a concept.

"Oh, well. That changes things."

"Like what?"

Alfred opened his mouth to answer, but a sharp rap on the door interrupted him. The door opened to reveal Toris standing on the other side. "Ivan, the car is here."

"Ah." Ivan rose to his feet, stuffing the last bit of his food into his mouth. "My apologies, Alfred. I have to leave."

"See you." Alfred replied, slightly down about the fact that he couldn't discover anything else interesting today. Ivan nodded quickly and began to march out of the room when an irresistible question popped into Alfred's head. "Hey, have you ever heard of a guy called Adolf Hitler?"

Ivan paused mid-stride and turned, a thoughtful look gracing his face. "Hm…He was a German painter, da?"

Both Ivan and Toris spent the next two minutes wondering why the hell Alfred was laughing.

* * *

><p>Alfred paced back and forth. He hadn't imagined a day without Ivan would be this boring. Which was incredibly strange considering he could barely stand the Russia in his own world. But this man was <em>not<em> his world's Russia. He'd confirmed that in more ways than he could count on both hands. This Ivan was markedly calmer and not at all vindictive and sadistic like his counterpart. This was probably to do his lack of experience with creating the USSR and the terrible revolution that had spawned it. This Ivan had not been sent careening over the cliff of insanity that his world's Ivan was still struggling to climb back up.

Curling his toes on the cold tile floor, he stared intently at the door. It was getting late, and few people would be roaming the halls at this time. He usually hated leaving his room without Ivan. The way the doctors looked at him, the way the other _nations _looked at him. He was honestly afraid they'd hurt him without Ivan nearby, though his one on one visits with several others had yet to spawn anything more than verbal animosity. But who was to say that would last? He groaned loudly. He was itching to get out of this room. He had a terrible case of cabin fever right now. The TV was all Russian. There were no games for him to play or computer for him to waste time on. He was just left in a room to sit and stay like a good little dog until some doctor or nation came along to bother him.

Annoyed at the thought, he marched toward the door without another second of hesitation. He paused briefly as he made it into the darkened hallways. Only a few lights remained active, and the entire facility seemed to take on a very different atmosphere. He shivered, but he refused to let it deter him. He needed to walk around. He was _supposed_ to, by his doctor's orders. If anyone happened to catch him, that would definitely be his excuse. He began to pick up speed until he'd made it to "leisurely stroll" territory. He turned a few corners, making sure to keep a mental map in his mind.

A sound stopped him cold. His hearing seemed to have become more acute, and as he listened closely, he heard the sound again. He relaxed momentarily, realizing it was just footsteps. This was a medical facility. There was staff on call twenty-four seven. So, of course…A sudden wave of fear crashed over him, and before he could stop himself, he darted into the nearest room: a supply closet. He struggled to control his breathing, and he couldn't for the life of himself figure out what was happening. He grabbed the front of his shirt, trying to force himself to take slow, deep breaths. But the fear refused to dissipate. What was this, a panic attack?

He suddenly realized that was a very likely possibility. He'd faced post traumatic stress before. He'd gradually recovered over the years as the wars that had spawned it faded into the past. But he'd never faced anything quite as brutal as his torture. He pressed his forehead against the back of the closet door and sank slowly to the floor. He had to get control of himself. He couldn't let himself break here. Not at this point. He'd been willing to die when it had seemed inevitable, but it wasn't anymore. He was going to live. And he needed to be mentally _there_ in order to do so properly. He had to maintain a stable mental state. If he didn't…

_Someone_ walked by the door to the closet, and his entire body went rigid. He tried to rationalize this situation over and over. _It's just doctor or a nurse or…_ But he quickly realized that he may have _really_ had a reason to be afraid.

"Tch, I could have sworn the bastard went this way."

Because it was _Francis_. Francis, who outright _hated_ him and thought he was an clone or some crazy bullshit like that sent by the Empire. Of all the nations that Alfred had come across so far, Francis was—so, so ironically—the one he feared the most. The man's accusations never ceased, and he only seemed to become more hostile day after day. Where most of the nations had at least become indifferent to his presence—to a degree—Francis' attitude toward him had only become more volatile.

And Alfred was convinced the man was dangerous.

And he was apparently right.

"He got away from me." Francis spoke into what sounded like a phone. "He may have returned his room, but I don't want to do it there. It'll be too suspicious. It's supposed to be a tragic _accident_ not a tragic _murder_." After a second of silence, he snorted. "Ah, I suppose you're right. It wouldn't be tragic either way, would it?"

_Oh God, he's planning to kill me!_ Alfred's heart raced, and he prayed that Francis moved on quickly. Not that that would solve anything. _That fucker's honestly going to kill me_. And _of course_, he would only do it while Ivan wasn't around. _Cowardly_ _bastard._ Alfred wanted to bound through that damned closet door and beat the living daylights of the Frenchman, but he knew very well he'd have everyone in the facility on him in minutes—probably beating him to death without mercy—if he did so. So he stayed quiet. And it seemed like that was a good decision.

"What are you doing?" A dangerously low voice sounded off.

"Oh!" Francis gasped. "Vash! You frightened me." He chuckled nervously.

Vash didn't give him any ground. "I asked you a question, France. What the hell are you doing?"

"Hm? Just talking a stroll, Vash. You really must calm down." Francis chuckled.

Vash didn't buy it. At all. "Right. Because everyone takes walks armed with filled _syringes_."

All the false mirth drained from Francis' voice. "Come now, Vash. You know just as well as I do that that little fucker is working for the Empire. He's a _spy_. He's some kind of trick."

"We don't _know_ that, Francis. You could be condemning an innocent man, and you know that very well."

"He _cannot_ be innocent! Not with that face. Not with that voice. Not with that name. _Never_ could he be innocent." Francis growled back.

Vash groaned. "Or so you believe. Has losing your country to the Empire really warped your mind this much, or are you just trying to go for some petty revenge?"

"Do not speak of me like you know my motivations!"

"Don't I?"

Francis said nothing else, and Alfred listened as he angrily marched away. Vash did not seem to move, and Alfred leaned closer to the door, listening carefully. Without warning, it opened, and he came tumbling out. He quickly rolled over, looking upward at a worn and battle-weary Vash. "Are you okay?" The Swiss nation asked.

Alfred nodded slowly. "Sort of…"

Vash helped him to his feet. "I apologize for that, as little as that must mean to you. And unfortunately, the only help I can give you now is advice: stay close to Ivan. As close as you physically can. Francis is not the only one after you. Far from it. The only thing holding them back is Ivan. They _need_ Ivan. They need sanctuary here in Russia. They need his help. They need his complete support. So do whatever you can to put yourself inside Ivan's circle of close friends. Because they are the only ones who are truly untouchable here. And I fear if you don't make it there soon, you may not be around for much longer." He slipped quietly by Alfred's stunned form, disappearing down another corridor.

Alfred stood there, motionless. He had had problems before. But this was not a problem. This was a disaster waiting to happen. And he wasn't sure there was anything he could to stop it.

* * *

><p><strong>Dro:<strong> Ah, France, why such a dick?

**Next Chapter: **The Empire holds a party for all his top officials, and of course, he brings his beloved brother along. With one stipulation.


	7. The Other Brother I Cannot Help

**Dro:** Ah, another chapter of this wonderfully dark and angsty fic. Well, have at it, like usual! I'm setting this up to be one of the most shocking fics of all time.

**Chapter Summary: **Matthew goes to a party held by Alfred. With one stipulation.

**Warnings: **Language; Violence

**Disclaimer:** Dro doesn't own APH. Personally, she just wants to own a couple slices of pizza right now. She's hungry.

* * *

><p>Matthew straightened his back and tilted his head up. He was hyper aware of Alfred's presence behind him, blue eyes watching carefully as the attendants meticulously powdered his face. In Alfred's world, Matthew had to look <em>perfect<em>, and if he did not, then _someone_ had done _something_ wrong and deserved to be punished for it. Oddly, Alfred never seemed to understand that the one at fault may have been himself. Not that Matthew would dare to ever say that to his face. Alfred wouldn't hurt him for it. Oh no. He would hurt some innocent bystander. Because _Mattie_ was a perfect little angel and could do no wrong in Alfred's world. And frankly, Matthew was glad that he didn't see _more_ of what Alfred's world looked like. The things he had already witnessed had more than proved it was a horrifying place.

"There!" Alfred exclaimed. "That's perfect. The light is hitting his cheeks just right." The attendants bowed slightly and backed away as Alfred marched up to inspect their work. "Good job, ladies. Now, where are the others with his clothes?"

"Right here, sir!" A petite woman scurried into the room with a brand new military uniform in her arms. "It was pressed and dry-cleaned and inspected for any imperfections. Just like you asked, sir." She held the uniform outward, offering it like a sacrifice.

Alfred smiled brightened. "Looks great! Thank you very much. You're dismissed." He pointed to the other two attendants. "You two, help Mattie get dressed." He glanced at the gleaming gold watch on his wrist. "Unfortunately, I've got a brief meeting with the Joint Chiefs before our little get together." He leaned down and kissed Matthew's freshly powdered cheek. "See you later, Mattie."

Matthew managed to pull his lips upward. "Have a good meeting, Al."

Alfred snorted. "Nonsense! All my meetings are good." He was out the door before Matthew could reply, his presence like a hurricane to all that he passed.

Once he knew his brother was out of earshot, Matthew sighed. He begrudgingly rose to his feet and stripped off the shirt he'd been wearing, allowing the two women to help him into the suit. He didn't need the help. He never had. And he never would. But he knew that Al knew very well that if Matthew didn't have anyone to do this for him, then he would never bother to do it himself. Because unlike Alfred, Matthew did not care what he looked like or what he wore. And that just didn't suit Alfred's warped vision of grandeur. So he had corrected it in the_ gentlest_ way he knew how: personal servants.

Now, if only Alfred would have extended that gentleness to the rest of the world. Unfortunately, Matthew had had no such luck getting that one to work. So he'd just continued to let himself be pampered like a little pet. At times, he could hardly bring himself to care about the state of the world. Other times, he would chastise himself for being so apathetic, only to be faced with a cold reminder that he was trapped here, unable to act, unable to help the struggling resistance. He swallowed, trying to focus on the women pulling and tugging at his clothing to get it just right. He tried not to think about the beginning, when Alfred had literally barged into his house, dragged him out kicking and screaming, and locked him up here. He had cried and shrieked and broken every piece of furniture over and over and over for _months_.

Alfred had been so calm and patient with him that he'd nearly gone insane along with his brother. Sometimes he wondered if he actually had. Was it odd that he'd grown so uncaring, so aloof? He had free reign of the house—as long as there was one of Al's dedicated servants with him. He could even go outside into the garden without any hindrances. But there was something…_wrong_ about those things. They were just illusions of freedom that Alfred had given him to make him _feel_ _better_, to try and win him over. It had never worked, of course. It was why he was still trapped like this, why he had not visited his own country in so long. Because Alfred would _never_ let him go beyond the grounds of his estate. Not until he was sure that Matthew was on his side.

And since Matthew would _never_ be on his side—they both knew it—Matthew would never again be free.

Matthew's only hope in the world at this point was that Russia would somehow come through for him and stop Alfred from advancing, that the resistance forces would—by some _miracle_—manage to overthrow his brother. It was a very dim hope at this point considering how far Alfred had advanced in his plans to take over the world, but Matthew would keep that little flame burning as long as he could. And if…and if Alfred succeeded, then…

Then he would die right along with the rest of the resistance.

It wouldn't have been the first time he'd considered suicide. He had so many implements with which to accomplish it around him. In those first few months, he'd seriously considered just ending himself right then and there. But when some members of Alfred's household had revealed they were spies and that they could spirit messages between him and the resistance, he'd regained some of his initial resolve. Things were still hard for him, though the apathy—ironically—served to make it easier for him to live like this. But that couldn't possibly last forever. He _would_ crack somewhere down the line. It was only a matter of time.

"All done, Mr. Williams, sir."

He only briefly glanced at himself in the mirror. He would have been surprised that the suit wasn't white, but considering it was the military uniform of Al's empire, it made perfect sense. There was only one thing Alfred loved more than Matthew in white, and that was Matthew showing his "allegiance" to Alfred. He cursed his brother under his breath. He hated this range of negative emotions that he always went through whenever his brother was here. Al's presence was a burden. It just wasn't enough to be a prisoner that was treated like a prize, was it? No, Alfred had just _had_ to go further. He alwayshad to go further. He just couldn't stop.

He made his way down the stairs, his obligatory "guard" following at a distance. He could already hear the assembled guests talking amongst themselves. These people…they disgusted him. These humans who had taken advantage of Alfred's movement to topple the governments of the world. Military leaders. The wealthy. They had all hopped on board Alfred's grand train to world domination. An as a result, they had become even more wealthy, even while the rest of the world was crushed, while millions were slaughtered and killed. He despised these people, and if he hadn't been able to keep his emotions from influencing his actions, then he was sure he would have killed them all long ago.

He wasn't sure what disgusted him more, _them_, that he would honestly and truly murder them all, or that Alfred would most certainly get a kick out of it and laugh hysterically. Without a single care or concern about the lost lives. He involuntarily shivered as he rounded the corner, the party already in full swing. The room seemed to freeze as they all caught sight of him, but then they came to their senses and began smiling and nodding to him. All fake. Most of them deathly afraid. Because in this, as in all things in Alfred's _perfect_ new world, there was a rule that no one would dare violate.

Matthew could attend any party he wanted. He could chat with the partygoers. They could chat with him.

But _no one_ was allowed to touch him. Not a handshake. Not a brush of a sleeve. Not at all. And many of today's partygoers had learned firsthand just what breaking that rule meant. He recognized most of them. He remembered—with absolute clarity—their terrified faces on the day that a general had tempted fate—willingly and purposefully—just to see what would happen if he crossed one of Alfred's lines. It had been—

"Mattie!" Alfred strode up to him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "Nice party, eh?" He not-so-subtly roved his eyes over Matthew's body. "You look wonderful in that. Give my compliments to the girls later, will you?"

Matthew felt sorry for those poor women. They had been hand-selected to be his attendants by Alfred. They were only ones allowed to touch him, and if they messed up _anything_ that Alfred ordered…Well, the current girls had _not_ been his first group of attendants. "Yes. I will." He smiled lightly. Fake. Oh _so_ fake. Just like every emotion he regularly displayed these days.

"Well, let's go mingle. How about it?" Alfred never stopped touching him.

"Sure."

After the seventh military so-and-so and his wife or daughter, Matthew had completely tuned out the world around him. Currently, he was wondering about the Alfred double that Ivan had apparently found. He'd been desperately wanting to know more about the man, but Ivan had yet to send him another message. He was starting to get slightly worried that the double had been dangerous and—

Something crashed into him and sent him tumbling to the floor. He rolled over quickly, realizing a serving girl had accidentally ran into him. She was young. Very young. Barely old enough to be out of school. She sat up, profusely apologizing. Then she froze, her eyes widening in horror, as she realized just _who_ she had run into. Who she had _touched_. Matthew felt that same fear grip him. He rose quickly to his feet, not caring in the least that the entire party had ground to halt in the wake of something that should have been nothing more than a simple, meaningless accident. And the moment he saw Al's eyes, he knew he was in trouble.

No, not him. That poor, poor girl.

It was like a light-bulb coming on. Instantaneous. With the flick of a "switch." All the pleasantness, all the mirth seemed to have drained from Alfred's face. And it wake was _rage_. His blue eyes were set in a stare that could have given a person a heart attack. It was hard. Cold. There was no warmth. There was no _humanity_ whatsoever in that glare. And despite his convictions, despite his intense desires to help that _poor, poor_ girl, Matthew found himself rooted the spot, unable to make another move. It was like Alfred had literally forced everyone and everything to come to a complete stand still.

The only thing moving was that poor girl. She was shaking wildly, tears pouring from her pleading eyes. But Matthew couldn't move. He couldn't even breathe. _I cynically say to myself that I'd kill everyone in this room, and yet I've just sentenced one of the very few innocent people in it to die…_He deserved to be hurt. Not her. He had sat here for so long doing _nothing_ while the rest of the people that he claimed were his allies fought and gave their lives and suffered life-threatening injuries. Once again, he had failed an innocent. Just like he had with his own people. Just like he had with the resistance.

"You touched my brother." Alfred's spat. His voice burned like acid. "How _dare_ you…" He narrowed his eyes, taking a step toward the cowering girl.

"Please…please, sir…It was an accident…I didn't mean…I didn't meant to…I'm so sorry. I'm so…I'm sorry…I…"

"I don't want you excuses or your apology, you stupid little bitch. You _touched_ my brother with your filthy hands. You _knocked_ him down. You could have _hurt_ my brother."

"Please…Please…I…"

Alfred snarled.

The girl ran, screaming at the top of her lungs.

Matthew closed his eyes.

She never made it out the door.

* * *

><p>He stood on the balcony, watching the fountains in the garden below. He wanted to jump into them, to submerse himself in the frigid water, to wash away his sins with it as it burned his skin with ice. He wanted to just let himself fall off the face of the Earth. Now more so than ever before. <em>I should have done something<em>. He'd been telling himself that for the last hour. And it was the truth. He could have jumped in the way. He could have told Alfred to stop. Alfred wouldn't have listened, but at least it would have been _something_. Instead, he had just stood there and let that poor girl die.

That was what he was going to do from now on, wasn't it? He was going to sit by idly while the rest of his fellow nations died at his brother's hands. The water started to look more and more inviting. He wasn't sure he was high enough for the fall to kill him, but maybe if he landed _just_ right on his neck—

"Mattie, there you are!" Alfred strolled out onto the balcony, his typical smile plastered back in its place. The ballroom had been cleared out after the _incident_. Matthew didn't bother to respond. Alfred paused at this, frowning slightly. "Aw, Mattie, you're not _mad_, are you?"

"It was just an accident, Al."

"Yeah, well, people should be more careful." He shrugged. "She broke a rule, and she got punished for it. Isn't that how that usually works?"

Matthew didn't answer.

"You're not giving me the silent treatment now, are you?"

He still said nothing.

Alfred sighed playfully. "You really need to loosen up, you know that, Mattie? You're just way too hard on yourself. You need to do something relaxing." He chuckled. "I have a few ideas in mind." He said suggestively.

Matthew snorted. "I'm sure you do."

Alfred pouted comically. "Aw, come on! Don't be so mean!" He spun around in a circle. "Tonight was supposed to be special, Mattie! I had it all planned out. And that stupid bitch ruined it! By the way, she didn't hurt you, did she?"

Yes. He could always leave it to Al to kill first and ask questions later. "No." He answered coldly.

He clicked his tongue. "Eh, oh well. Whatever. Anyway, with the crowd all ruined, I couldn't do what I was going to do. And that really pissed me off. Stupid people. Couldn't even keep their cool over something as mundane as a stupid girl doing stupid things."

"You broke her neck, Al."

"Come on, do you really care that much about her? You didn't even know her name!"

"And that somehow makes her less valuable as a human being?" He glared at Alfred indignantly. He usually wasn't so forward with his disdain—not for a _long time_ now—but he could he feel his emotions flaring again, all traces of his prior apathy being pushed back in favor of some _darker_ emotions that he hadn't utilized outwardly in a very long while. But, as it always was with Alfred, he was just replacing one negative emotion with another.

Alfred stared at him, uncomprehending. "But that's just it, Mattie. She was _just_ a human. What the hell does she matter in the grand scheme of things?"

He snapped. "The 'grand scheme' of things is utterly meaningless if don't consider all the pieces that it consists of, Al."

Something flickered in Alfred's eyes. Something dangerous. But he pushed it away as quickly as it came. "Pssh! You're just stressed out, aren't you, Mattie? You need to get out more. How about we hang out in the garden tomorrow? You like the garden, right?"

"I really don't give a shit about the garden right now, Al."

Alfred shook his head, sighing. "I've been planning _this_ for such a long time, Mattie. Can't you at least…smile a little?"

"Planning _what_, Al?"

His smile brightened again, frighteningly so. "Well…I'm not quite sure I want to tell you while you're in this sour mood!"

"Al, I'm not really going to be in a better mood tomorrow, so might as well just get it on with it."

Alfred sighed with mock sadness. "Oh, very well. I had so hoped to do this in front of a awed and endeared crowd, but I suppose it's more intimate with just the two of us, huh? Well, that's okay too!"

Matthew pushed away from the railing and turned toward his brother, confused. "Um, what are you talking about?"

Alfred put his smile on the highest beams he had and quickly sank to one knee, shuffling around in his pocket before producing a small box. He held it up and popped it open, revealing a gorgeous gold ring with a massive violet gem in the center, surrounded by diamonds.

"Will you marry me, Mattie?"

* * *

><p><strong>Dro: <strong>I was actually plotting out the defining moment of this fic today. I can't wait until I get to it. It'll blow your minds. Too bad that's not for a while yet.

**Next Chapter:** After hearing of the France incident, Ivan gives Alfred a surprising offer. Meanwhile, back in the home universe, France and England acknowledge how out of hand things are getting. Then they get a startling phone call.


	8. The Other Them That I Must Fear

**Dro: **So many emotions in this story. I love writing about characters' emotions, especially when they're all dark. Anyway, have at it!

**Chapter Summary: **Ivan makes Alfred an offer. Francis and Arthur discuss how out of hand things are getting. Francis gets a phone call that changes everything.

**Warnings:** Violence; Language

**Disclaimer:** I lied. Not only did I just order Stargate Atlantis seasons 1 through 3, but I also just ordered The Tudors seasons 1 and 2 on blu ray as a Father's day present for my dad...-looks at rapidly dwindling checking account- I guess this is what happens when you spend a year at college basically spending _no_ money because you lack the time do actually do anything. Heh. Heh. Anyway, guess I won't be buying the rights to APH anytime soon. 

* * *

><p>His eyes were latched onto the door. He watched it almost constantly now. Ever since he'd overheard Francis' plan to off him, he'd kept his guard up. But it was a lose-lose situation, it seemed. The more he watched that damned door, the more paranoid he became that someone was about to walk through it and kill him. The more paranoid he became, the closer and closer he got to triggering a panic attack. He was having them almost daily, and they were debilitating. He was on edge at all times, and it left him unable to sleep, unable to function properly. He was suspicious of everyone that came in through that door. It didn't matter who it was or what they claimed to be doing. France had allies, and Alfred had no idea who they were.<p>

He was almost sure—very hopeful—that Toris wasn't one of them. Toris spoke with him more freely now and seemed to have grown more comfortable around him, but even then, Alfred could see _something_ lurking just beneath the surface. Some kind of secret. Whether it was that he _was_ with Francis or that he _knew_ of Francis' plan and just didn't want to scare him, Alfred did not know. Toris was too careful, too cautious. He moved and spoke with a guarded demeanor, unwilling to let anything slip. But since the hallway incident had passed, there had been no other attempts on his life—at least none that he had heard about. And if Toris had wanted to kill him, then he'd have done it long ago. He'd had more opportunities to do it than anyone else.

The door opened abruptly, and Alfred jumped, gasping loudly. _They're coming to kill me. They're coming to kill me_. He was sure of it. They'd finally gotten fed up with waiting and were…

It was Ivan.

He stormed into the room and slammed the door behind him, breathing loudly. When his eyes finally landed on Alfred, he relaxed slightly, letting out a deep sigh. "Alfred, how are you doing?"

"Um, w—well…" He could barely speak. His voice shook from the panic attack he was trying his best to quell. Ivan's entrance had sent his heart racing and his mind reeling, and he could hardly keep them both under control. "F—fine, I guess."

Ivan growled under his breath, and Alfred felt his pulse begin to quicken again. Ivan looked _enraged_. Alfred wasn't sure why. The others nations hated to give him any news whatsoever. It was as if they believed he could magically teleport himself outside the hospital and run away. They had guards at every exit, and despite the way he usually acted in his home world, he was _not_ a fool. They weren't going to let him flee. Not that he was trying to. He had no intention of leaving this place. Where would he go? What would he do? Everyone on the street would know his face. Every person would quake in fear or try to murder him where he stood. The police would be on him in seconds. He couldn't have left even if he'd had a particular desire to do so. But he didn't. Because this was not his world, and these were not his fellow nations, and this war was not his own. He didn't want to get involved. He didn't want to be another casualty of his counterpart's tyranny.

Honestly, he had no idea _what_ he wanted.

"Home" sounded nice in theory as a destination. It was supposed to be a cozy place where he was safe and all his friends were there for him. But the home he'd left behind had been one of angry and bitter nations, ready and waiting to tear him to pieces. He'd wished to _leave_ home. He'd wanted to go somewhere else. He just hadn't wanted to come _here._ But "here" was what he'd be given, and because of that, he was lost. Where did he go from "here"? What could there possibly be in this world that wasn't in his home world?

"No one has tried to hurt you?" Ivan murmured finally.

"No, not since…" He swallowed. Did Ivan know about…? Alfred had nothing to anyone about the hallway incident. Vash knew he'd been there, but who had he told? Francis obviously did not know. If he had known, he probably would have come after Alfred much sooner, trying to kill him off before he had a chance to escape.

"Not since Francis' last assassination attempt?"

Oh, so Ivan _did_ know.

"Yeah. Not since that."

"Very well, then." He walked around to the closet on the far side of the room and wrenched the doors open, pulling out all the clothing Alfred had been given. "Have the doctors cleared you to leave?"

"Um…leave?" But where could he possibly _go_? "I…I think so…"

"Good."

"But, um…Ivan…where will I be going?" Was Ivan going to just kick him out? Or perhaps send him to a "secure facility"?He had all kinds of nightmares already about the places he could end up. The cell where he'd been tortured. A dark solitary confinement room. A labor camp. A regular prison undergoing daily interrogation.

"Well, if you'd like, you can stay with me."

He stared, uncomprehending. "With…you? You mean…"

"At my home. It is not far from Moscow, but it is well guarded and most importantly, far, far away from all the other nations, from our bases of operations, and from any random citizen who could possibly happen upon you on the street." He pulled out a suitcase and began to pile the clothes in.

"You…you want me to…to live with you?"

Ivan paused, slowly turning around. "Do not sound so surprised, Alfred. Despite the way it seems, not everyone in this world hates and fears you. I am one of those people. And personally, I do not appreciate the nations that I allowed to stay and operate in _my_ country disobeying _my_ direct orders to leave you alone. I gave them very specific orders, Alfred. And many of them defied me directly. I will not stand for that. Nor will I allow any harm to come to you while you are under my care."

"…Why?"

Ivan narrowed his eyes, confused. "What?"

"Why would you trust me? Why protect me from them?"

Ivan snorted. "You proved to me before you spoke a word that you are not the Empire or even remotely like him. That is more than enough for me to trust you. And over the past few weeks that you have been here, I have only become more and more intrigued about you and this world you come from. It has been a long while since I could sit down beside someone and talk to them as an equal. As a friend. I lost that privilege when…"

Alfred didn't need Ivan to finish that sentence. He nodded slowly. "Thank you. For all you've done for me. I did nothing to deserve your trust or your charity. I'm still halfway convinced I _don't_ deserve either of those things. But it's nice to see someone genuinely trust me, support me. I got to see firsthand that…that no one else…"

Ivan slammed the top of the suitcase down. "What they said or did does not matter, Alfred. Not right now. You are _here_, not there. You are safe from their influence, so _please_ do not burden yourself with them right now. You have their counterparts to worry about, and that is more worry than anyone needs to experience. I do not want to see you fall apart, Alfred. I want to see you recover and grow stronger and survive this. I want to see what separates you from the Empire _shine_. And you cannot do that if you allow harsh words and pathetically volatile feelings from others to overwhelm you. You want to prove you are a better nation than they believe you to be, da? The way to do that is to _overcome_ those things they say and do to you."

Alfred felt his lips tug upward. "I know."

* * *

><p>He downed the whiskey and slammed the glass back down on the table, sighing as the burn faded into a dull tingle. He could drink all he wanted, and yet, it never seemed to be enough. Even when he blacked out for the night, reality would slap him in the face even harder the next morning. He groaned under his breath as Francis marched back into the room, a slight waver to his gait. His face was flushed with the massive amount of wine he'd already consumed, but there was still a full glass held delicately in his hand. Like a religious icon, Arthur thought.<p>

Drinking had always been his standby, but it just wasn't helping anymore. Every coherent thought he had—and even most of his drunken ones—involved Alfred in some way, shape, or form. When this had all started, he'd been sure Alfred was messing with them. He'd just _known_ this was another one of Alfred's immature little jokes. Either that or he was off pouting somewhere about their complaining. He'd screwed up and refused to take the blame, so they were mad at him. But he just couldn't accept that it was his fault, could he? Oh no.

But now…now he was genuinely worried. This wasn't a prank. This wasn't some solemn sulking on a beach somewhere in California. Alfred was _missing_. Gone. Just like that. He had seen the tape too, watched Alfred run out of the conference center with tears streaming down his face. He hadn't felt this guilty since…No, he'd _never_ felt this guilty. Oh _God_, he'd thought over and over, Alfred had _heard_ them. He had played along at first during their little _talk_ about Alfred. Because it was true, he did think Alfred deserved some blame. He wanted to give the boy a good smack and tell him to act like the adult he was supposed to be. But he'd never imagined some of things the others had said. Some of their suggestions were downright _disgusting_, and at one point, he'd felt as if he was standing outside his body, watching them all shout heinous things back and forth without actually _being_ there. It hadn't felt real.

But it had been real enough for Alfred, hadn't it?

Arthur couldn't help but wonder where he was, what he was doing. He feared that Alfred had ended up on the street somewhere, broken and torn, doused in drugs and alcohol to take the edge off the pain. Much like himself, he mused. Now, however, he was growing more and more concerned. He hadn't really considered Matthew's accusations at first. The poor boy was on edge and paranoid. His brother had just _vanished_. But the more days that passed without any news of Alfred being found, the more convinced Arthur became that perhaps Matthew was onto something.

What if someone _had_ taken advantage of Alfred's emotional state and kidnapped him? What if he _was_ being tortured somewhere? What if someone _had_ taken the angry threats seriously and was currently doing unforgivable things to the boy that had once been Arthur's—

"_Mon cher,_ you really must stop doing this to yourself." Francis' voice slurred slightly.

"Hm?" He groaned.

"I can see it, that look in your eyes that you get when thinking of Alfred. You must stop tormenting yourself this way."

He sighed. "I can't, Francis. _Everything_ reminds me of him. And everywhere I turn, I feel his presence. I _can't_ stop thinking of him. I just…what are we going to do, Francis? What if we can't find him? Or what if…what if we find him and…?" He couldn't even finish the sentence.

"I do not know. But I do that we must not give up all hope yet. He could be alive and well out there. He could just be hiding from us, hurt and confused as to why we would say such awful things." Francis sipped his wine.

Arthur slammed his palms on the table. "But that's just it, Francis! We should never have said those things to begin with! _We_ were wrong, not him. Yes, he'd mad some mistakes. Yes, he was generally being an idiot. But that was no reason for everyone to jump on the heinous torture train and talk about such…such _vile_ things. And then, for him to actually _hear_ us…I can't imagine what he thought, Francis. What if he thought were actually planning to do those things to him? What if he's hiding away somewhere, terrified that we'll hurt him if we find him? And how could we possibly rectify a situation like that? If he is out there somewhere, how would we even get him to believe we don't mean any harm?"

Francis shook his head. "I do not know. We messed up. We made a terrible mistake, far worse than any Alfred himself made. And now we are paying for it. This situation has spiraled out of control. Mathieu will not even speak to me over the phone. I think he is beginning to lose himself, Arthur. I fear his increasing paranoia will drive him to do awful things. He cares for Alfred so much, and now that his brother is gone, he does not know what to do. I am afraid he will act recklessly and—"

He was silenced by the sound of his mobile ringing. He quickly plucked it from the table and glanced at the screen. "Ah, Antonio." He tapped the screen and held it to his ear. "And what can I help you with this fine evening, Anto—?" He paused, and Arthur listened closely. Antonio's voice was unusually panicked. The Spaniard rarely lost his carefree façade and even more rarely lost his cool. Something _really, really bad_ had to have happened.

"What…_what_ did you just say?" Francis yelled back into the phone. Antonio's voice quickly responded. "That is _impossible_. You must be mistaken." More yelling. "Antonio, Mathieu would _never_…" He gulped. His eyes darted around aimlessly, quickly growing more and more panicked. "Where are they now? I will leave immediately." He carelessly dropped his phone on the table a moment later.

"F...Francis?" Arthur glanced up at him warily. Francis had spoken of Matthew. But what had Matthew done? Matthew couldn't possibly have done anything terrible. He just…he just wasn't capable of such things. He was composed and calculating, not brash and angry and… "Francis, what's happened?"

Francis sank back down into his seat, his eyes wide and uncomprehending. "I don't…I don't understand how this…" He ran a hand through his hair, his breathing shallow. Finally, he met Arthur's confused and cautiously curious gaze.

"Francis…" He spoke softly. "What happened?"

Francis shook his head slowly. "Mathieu…"

"Mathew did what, Francis?"

He swallowed, tears now springing to his eyes. "_Mon petite Mathieu_…"

"Francis, for God's sakes!"

The reply was nothing more than a terrified whimper. "Antonio just received word from Vash a few minutes ago. Apparently, earlier tonight…Ah…Mathieu…"

"Mathieu shot Ivan."

* * *

><p><strong>Dro:<strong> Bet you didn't see that coming.

**Next Chapter:** Francis and Arthur rush to Canada to find out the full story. Meanwhile, Alfred moves into Ivan's house and tries his best to overcome the awkwardness.


	9. The Other Him That Just May Care

**Dro:** I apologize for the abrupt lack of an update on Friday. I had a killer headache and somewhere to be on Saturday, so I went to sleep rather early. Anyway, definitely count on those weekend breaks from my writing. My eyes are really hurting from the strain of staring at my computer all day. Bah, anyway, I changed this chapter from my original description because I thought this would be more exciting.

**Chapter Summary: **Ivan's visit to Matthew's house. And it's many interesting consequences.

**Warnings: **Language, Violence, _Sex_

**Disclaimer: **Dro still doesn't own APH, people. My breaks from writing are not attempts to bid on the rights to APH. I promise.

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><p>Ivan had considered all his options by this point. The escalating tensions between practically every nation in the world was having completely undesired consequences all around. There were times when manipulating nations into high-tension states worked in one's favor, but this was not one of those times. Especially considering a lot of that tension was directed toward him. He'd tried his best to quell the Europeans' rising fears, but they wouldn't stop to listen to him. Everyone was whispering, terrified, about the possibilities of <em>war<em> and _death_ and _destruction_, all because America had disappeared. Ivan had rolled his eyes at least a million times by this point. Yes, America's disappearance was a problem, but it wasn't like someone had set off a nuke and blown up half the Earth.

But since diplomacy had failed him and most nations were now on high alert, he found himself at a loss of how to proceed. All the nations were trapped in a stalemate. No one would admit to kidnapping or murdering America (who would have?), and no one had yet to bring forth any clues to finding him to the table. Which left Ivan in a very awkward position. America had disappeared in _his_ country, during a conference sponsored by _him_, and there were no other leads to where America had gone. Which had all eyes on _him_. He _had_ been America's greatest enemy at one point in the recent past, so why not just pile all the suspicion on him? That was the way these fools always did things.

Regardless, his lack of ideas had now forced him into his last resort. He stood in front of Matvey's door, his fist poised to knock. He was unsure if wanted to actually go through with this. He'd exhausted all his other options, yes, but Matvey was emotionally compromised and very likely to snap at any point in time. Ivan wasn't sure how much damage the boy could actually do, but he knew enough about Matvey to know a threat from him was no joke. But since he didn't have any other choices, he went ahead and knocked.

Ivan had spent hours upon hours wondering just where America had gone. Alfred was not known for just vanishing into the night. Despite his apparent stupidity and lack of ability to concentrate and be serious for more than five seconds at a time, he knew his duties and performed them as he should. He did not just skip meetings or run away from challenges. Of course, Ivan knew better than to believe America was "stupid" to begin with. He had seen the stirrings of _something else_ within those blue eyes in the past, something far greater than existed in his daily ramblings about ridiculous plans that served no actual purpose other than to irritate and annoy the audience of the day.

He had never quite figured Alfred out, and half the time, he wasn't sure he should try.

The door opened a crack, a wary violet eye peering through it. "What do _you_ want?"

Ivan felt the beginnings of a chill. He had never seen Matvey this paranoid or this hostile, and quite frankly, he wondered if hiding large parts of their personalities was something the American twins had in common. "I just want to talk with you, Matvey." He raised in hands in surrender. He would need to play this exactly right if he was to get the information he desired. "I am alone, unarmed. You have nothing to fear from me. We are friends, da?"

Matvey narrowed his gaze for several moments before opening the door wider. "Fine. But I'm going to warn you now. You try _anything_, and I'll shoot you where you stand."

He nodded solemnly. _Exactly_ right. Or else there could very well be some nasty consequences. Of course, he wouldn't dare just come out and ask Matvey about the things he wanted to know. The last thing he needed was to put the boy more on guard than he already was. But he really _needed_ to know. He needed to know if Matvey had had _any_ contact with Alfred whatsoever after the point he had disappeared. He needed to know if Matvey had come in contact with some kind of terrorist group that wanted a ransom for his brother. If there had been some kind of breach of information and America _had_ gotten kidnapped for some reason or another, then Ivan found it highly unlikely that the perpetrator would just come out and alert _every_ nation of it. Whoever would do such a thing would play it safe, would hone in on a specific target to use his leverage against.

Ivan's guess was Matvey. Matvey was acting as if he _knew_ something terrible had happened, and Ivan had wondered for many a hour—pacing back and forth in his office—if Matvey was being forced into silence on the threat of his brother's life. And _if_ that was the case, then Matvey would never just come out and _tell_ him so. Obviously. Which meant Ivan would need to do some snooping. He did not particularly like the idea of spying on Matvey or invading the boy's privacy—he _liked_ Matvey—but he didn't feel like he had any other choice. _Something_ was going on here, and this was his last resort on finding out just _what_ that something was.

He found himself on Matvey's sofa an hour later, both of them warm and not quite lucid after consuming the vodka that Ivan had brought along for the occasion. He had played this decently so far. Matvey did not seem to suspect anything other than a friendly visit. Of course, Matvey was not one to _threaten_ others either, so for all Ivan knew, he was just hiding his true thoughts. "So, Matvey, what have you been doing this past few weeks?"

Matvey grumbled. "What do you think? I've been using every available resource to search for Al."

Ivan tossed an arm around the boy's shoulder, squeezing it gently. "It will be all right, Matvey. We will find him."

"And what if we don't?" He whispered, snuggling closer to Ivan's larger body.

"We _will_. If America is on this Earth, we will find him."

"And what if he's not?"

Ivan stiffened. "What do you mean?"

Matvey sighed, his glazed eyes barely focused on the TV in front of him. "I feel like I've searched the world over several times already, Ivan, and I've found _nothing_. I'm starting to think maybe Al really _isn't_ on this Earth anymore. What if something insane happened, like he got sucked through a wormhole into another dimension? Or…or some other crazy shit? What would you think if something like _that_ happened?"

Ivan pursed his lips. "I would think that perhaps you have had a little too much to drink, Matvey, if you would believe such things to be true." He tugged the boy closer. "Listen to me. I did not take your brother. I swear it on my life. And I am willing to vouch the same for many, many other nations. All of them? Of course not. But there are _many_ people out there who are your allies in this search, Matvey, and you must stop pushing them away. I know you are scared and hurting. Many feel the same way. Many—"

"And by 'many,' do you mean the same people who suggested we beat, torture, rape, and kill my brother because his _country_ made _financial_ mistakes?"

Ivan hung his head. "Matvey, please…we never would have…"

"So you say now. Because Al is gone, right? You don't _need_ the threats anymore because Al is already out of the picture. But if he was still here? Could I still trust you wouldn't do those things then? I honestly don't think I could. I _know_ you people. I've sat by for decades and just _watched_, observed every asset and weakness, all your personality traits, all your flaws. And do you know what conclusion I've come to?"

Ivan said nothing.

"I've come to the conclusion that every single one of you would have been perfectly willing to follow through on those threats. You think so highly of yourselves, think you're so morally superior, that you're _better_. But you're _not_. Not even close. And if Al had still been here and you had gone through with your threats, I bet you everything I own that you would have defended doing such things until the very end. Because that's how you all work. Most of you have slaved through countless bloody wars and insane leaders and decades of abuse and neglect. You're all…You're all just _warped_ in the worst of ways." Ivan felt the boy swallow. "And I can't help but imagine that I'll be the same one day, especially with the way all of you act. I'm _surrounded_ by you people all the damn time, and so is Al. I've spent the last several weeks wondering if he'd just found a way to escape before he cracked. I've also wondered if he _did_ crack and killed himself, unable to bear the insanity."

Ivan felt oddly cold. He had never heard Matvey speak this way before, and it left a terrible taste in his mouth. Was this the influence that the old Eastern hemisphere was having on the West? Matvey and Alfred were young and idealistic. And while Ivan didn't necessarily see that as a problem in itself, he couldn't help but think what kind of impressions he and the rest of the world were leaving on the brothers. Was this it? Were they both inwardly and silently afraid that decrepit, twisted Europe and old, backward Asia were driving them slowly toward insanity, pushing them toward becoming like the Old World that they had supposedly been founded to escape?

And if this was true, then who could they possibly discuss such fears with? The only answer was one another. But with Alfred currently missing, Matvey would have had only himself to talk to. Who could possibly know how much his fears had corrupted his every thought of the other nations? Was this why Matvey had been so hostile, so on edge? Did he think _they_ had _gotten_ Alfred and were coming for him next? It sounded so deranged, so unhinged. But so did the idea of a dictator slaughtering millions of Jews, the idea of another dictator slaughtering millions of his own people or sending them off to die in Siberia, the idea of kings and queens mass murdering their own subjects, the idea of rebels slaughtering imperfect government leaders for the mere crime of being imperfect.

And yet all those things and more had come to pass.

So what was there to stop _them_ from dragging the young, idealistic American twins down to _their _level? Ivan had no qualms admitting he was emotionally, mentally, and physically damaged. He had been downright insane after the fall of the czars, and he admitted that freely. Few older nations could say they had always been completely sane, and he knew of none who could claim they were in any way _clean_ or free of guilt for unspeakable crimes. But what if—even unbeknownst to themselves—they were slowly corrupting the younger nations, slowly poisoning those whose countries showed such promise for a brighter future?

Ivan let out the breath that was slowly suffocating him. Now _he_ was afraid.

"Matvey—"

He was pulled into a brutal kiss, and a moment later, he found the Canadian in his lap, grinding roughly against him. He pushed back at first, knowing they were both drunk and in no position to consent to this, especially with such emotions stirring. But then he realized that was exactly _why_ Matvey was doing this and probably why Matvey had let him inside in the first place. He didn't quite _trust_ Ivan, but they'd had been something akin to friends long enough for Matvey to be willing to release his frustrations on him. Which is why he found himself slipping his cool bare hands up the back of the boy's shirt, why he tilted his head and opened his mouth and battled with Matvey's sloppy, drunken tongue. It was why he carried Matvey—the boy's legs locked around his waist—upstairs and to a bedroom, where clothes were practically torn off and tossed carelessly onto the floor. It was why he whispered soft Russian words into Matvey's ear with each thrust, why he wiped away the boy's frustrated tears, why he kissed those lips a few more times before slipping himself out and rising from the bed. It was he spent the next ten minutes cleaning them both off while Matvey's unfocused eyes watched him from his flushed pink face. It was why he slid back beneath the covers and pulled Matvey close to him and let the boy cling desperately to him as if there was no tomorrow.

And it was why, at three in the morning, he forced himself to quietly slip away from the peacefully dozing Canadian so he could search the house for any signs of _anything_ that might have hinted at foul play in his brother's disappearance. He searched for letters or tapes or videos, looked through desks and drawers and computers. He searched for any signs that the house was tapped or that _someone_ was _watching_ Matvey. And in the end, he found _nothing_. In the end, he found himself crouched down, sifting through the envelopes in one of Matvey's kitchen drawers, sighing as he found _no sign_ whatsoever that Matvey was being blackmailed by _anyone_ or that Matvey had idea at all of what had actually happened.

It was also—unwittingly—why he found himself face to face with a gun at four in the morning. With Matvey at the other end. He had intended to prove his friendship to Matvey, and yet he had inadvertently destroyed any chance of doing so. He cringed inwardly. "Matvey—"

"I warned you." Matvey's eyes were cold and sharp, all signs of his intoxication long gone. "I warned you not to try anything."

"Matvey, I was just under the impression that, perhaps—"

"Don't you _dare_ lie to me." His finger tightened on the trigger, and Ivan frowned, his eyes lingering on the barrel. He did not doubt that Matvey's fears made him liable to actually pull the trigger. He had nearly played this right, but he had made a crucial mistake at the very end.

"I am not lying, Matvey. I thought that someone may have been blackmailing you using Alfred as leverage. I thought perhaps you could say nothing of it because they were watching you. I have been wondering such things for a very long time now."

"So you search my house without permission in the middle of the night?"

Ivan sighed inwardly. "I was afraid that if you gave anything about the situation away, then Alfred would be harmed."

"I don't know where Alfred is."

"All right. I just had to _make sure_, Matvey. Think about it. It is a plausible situation, da? Especially with how paranoid and hostile you have been lately. _Think_ about it. Is it not an assumption you would have come to had you been in my position?"

Matvey lowered the gun slightly, his shadowed eyes lost in thought. "I…" He grimaced, sighing deeply. "You're right. And I know you're right. I just…I just…"

The next thing Ivan knew, he was staring at the sky, five paramedics desperately trying to stop the bleeding in his chest as they rushed him toward an ambulance, someone screaming loudly in the background. Someone that sounded like Matvey. And as his vision gradually faded into black, he could help but wonder just _who_ it was that had pulled that trigger.

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><p><strong>Dro: <strong>Ah, the mystery deepens. And I do love the bitter irony in this chapter.

**Next Chapter: **Alfred moves into Ivan's house despite the rampant opposition. It's rather awkward.


	10. The Other Plan I Will Not See

**Dro:** Don't ask where I've been. Just enjoy the chapter.

**Chapter Summary: **Alfred moves into Ivan's house despite the opposition. Some people talk.

**Warnings:** Language; Violence

**Disclaimer:** It's only been a week. I couldn't possibly have made that much money.

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><p>Traitor was a word he kept hearing. Fool was a close second. A barrage of "ignorant," "stupid," and "insane" followed them every few seconds from what Alfred assumed were the bystanders of the vicious argument unfolding on the other side of his hospital room door. It was Francis versus Ivan, and Alfred was honestly surprised that it hadn't escalated into a fistfight yet. Though he was sure that had more to do with the fact that Ivan was at least twice as big as the Frenchmen. But even so, Francis didn't seem to have any fear at all calling Ivan out on what he seemed to think was a move that would get them all killed.<p>

Alfred moving into Ivan's home.

It was such a simple idea. He would just pick up his things, pack them, get in a vehicle, and drive to a place that would house him from now on. But for some reason, such a common and simple idea had been warped into what _some_ people thought would trigger the apocalypse. Alfred almost laughed at that thought. Apparently, they didn't realize that their apocalypse had begun long ago, long before he'd ever set foot in this world, long before any of them had a way to stop it. But maybe that was just it, he surmised. Maybe the nations who had so foolishly trusted the Empire _before_ were now trying to make up for it by attempting to stamp out any possibility of betrayal from this _other_ America, who many of them believed to a _great threat_ to them.

If Alfred had had all his strength back, he would have faced them all himself and called them out on what they were: bitter and broken people who had given up on their world and were trying to make themselves feel better about it. That was really the only way to see this. Alfred had been cleared by several different doctors and psychologists by this point. They'd had interrogators come in and hook him up to a lie detector. They'd tried to intimidate him on every front in order to get him to "spill his secrets." And none of it had borne any of the putrid fruits they were searching for. Because there was _nothing_ there but a man who was emotionally hurting and who desperately wanted a reprieve from all this madness.

And yet, it seemed he would never get such a thing.

Unless Ivan could come through for him. Which he was praying for at this point. Ivan didn't seem to be backing down from his stance, but Alfred couldn't be sure that he would win this. He had people on his side—Switzerland, for example—but his supporters were vastly outnumbered by the people who apparently believed Ivan had either developed a major mental disorder or had been "brainwashed" by Alfred.

Alfred was glad he couldn't actually see the hallway. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to stand there in front of them all and watch this insanity unfold in front of his eyes. He knew what _those_ people were capable of now, and the very thought of them being anywhere in his line of sight made him cringe. He was trying to keep himself calm, but he kept expecting them to barge through the door and kill him any second, which was not helping him keep his impending panic attack at bay. It certainly didn't help that no one was in the room with him. If he'd at least had someone to talk to, he may have been able to stop thinking about what was happening just outside.

But he had no such luck.

A few seconds later, the door burst open, revealing an angry and frustrated Ivan. He slammed the door in the others' faces despite their continued heckling, and marched across the floor, swiping up Alfred's long-packed bags in the process. Ivan had intended to get him out of here the day before, but when the others had caught wind of his plan, all hell had broken loose in a matter of minutes. They'd been constantly arguing with Ivan for the better part of a day, and Ivan looked like he was ready to pass out. The bags under his eyes—though there long before this point—seemed darker and more pronounced. His eyelids were sagging, and he looked like he'd been awake for several days without a moment's rest.

"Ivan?" Alfred nervously questioned.

"We're leaving. Now." Without another word, he grabbed Alfred's arm and hauled him up. Alfred, wide-eyed and terrified, grimaced as Ivan heaved the door open again, exposing them both to the enraged nations on the other side. But instead of the outburst he expected, everything suddenly quieted to the point where a cold chill crept its way down Alfred's spine. All the nations were staring at him, some of them fearfully, others angrily, others with utter confusion, all of them split on how to approach this situation.

And in front of them all was Francis, who was angrily sneering.

"I sincerely hope you know what you are doing, Ivan. Because if you are wrong about him, then you could very well be dooming us all."

Ivan snorted. "And if you don't get back to work and do your damned job, we _will_ be. You forget, Francis, that I allow you and your refugees to stay here because you _contribute_ to the war effort. But I am perfectly willing to kick you out if you fail to keep up your end of the bargain. Don't forget that your country fell because of your incompetence."

Francis' lips trembled, his eyes on fire, and Alfred was honestly sure that he was going to lunge for Ivan's throat with his _teeth_, but somehow, he managed to restrain himself. "And it looks like you are well on your way to doing the same." With that, he turned on his heels and marched off down the hallway, the crowd that had backed him quickly dispersing, none of them willing to face Ivan's wrath without their leader.

Ivan didn't waste any time. Less than five minutes later, they were securely in a car that was quickly racing out of Moscow. Ivan sat as close to him as possible, his eyes darting back and forth as if he suspected an armed Francis to reappear next to them at any moment. And for all Alfred knew, he did. _All_ of the nations seemed paranoid, some of them _obviously_ more so than others. But this war with the Empire had taken its toll. Despite the fact that they were all supposedly _allied_, they seemed awfully distrustful of one another. And Alfred honestly winced at the realization that, if he _had_ been the Empire, he would've exploited _that_ to its fullest.

And that led him to wonder if the Empire already had.

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><p>Ivan's house was a bit more modest than he'd expected, but he saw the practicality of it. It was cozy, wood-lodge type two-story house nestled discreetly in the middle of a large patch of forest. Anyone driving by or <em>flying<em> by would be highly unlikely to see it underneath the tree cover. Which made a lot of sense seeing as it housed the de facto leader of what was essentially the last remnant of resistance preventing the Empire from completely taking over the planet.

The car pulled up the front door, and Ivan helped him out, the guards that accompanied them grabbing Alfred's few belongings. Ivan guided him inside without a word, and Alfred sighed as a warm blast of air rolled over him as he stepped through the threshold. It was a welcoming home, and he was immensely relieved to be rid of the whitewashed too-sterile hospital room walls that he'd been surrounded by for countless weeks now. Ivan led him up the stairs silently, guiding him with a light touch on the arm, until he stopped in front of a closed door.

He pushed it open, revealing a plain room with clean blue sheets and a fluffy matching comforter. A window on the far side overlooked the nearby trees. The room smelled like freshly cut wood, and Alfred felt himself smile. This was _much_ better than he'd originally imagined. There were no hordes of doctors and angry nations waiting around the corner. There was no constant hum of paranoid activity. There was just a still and silent room waiting to be occupied.

"Well, is it good enough?"

Alfred snapped himself out his reverie and stared up at Ivan. "Are you kidding?" He asked breathlessly. "It's perfect!" His eyes trailed around the homey room again. "Are...are you _sure_ you want to me to stay here?"

Ivan's weary eyes softened. "Of course. I would have never made the offer in the first place if I wasn't completely sure about it. You _deserve_ to be comfortable and safe, Alfred. Your presence here has complicated things, but see, that's just it. If it hadn't been this way, I would have been _so ignorant_ to the inner workings of my own alliance." He shook his head. "I'm glad you're here. Your presence has exposed just about every hidden weakness in the people I consider my allies, and without it, those things could have gone unnoticed by me until it was too late. Francis' paranoid recklessness is a danger to us _all_, not just you and not just himself. And after…and after what has been done to you, I am absolutely dedicated to helping you in whatever way possible." He squeezed Alfred's shoulder gently.

Alfred bit his lip. "Thank you." It was all he could think of to say.

"There's no need. You have done far more for me than you realize." He patted Alfred's back and motioned to his guards, who unloaded Alfred's bags into the room. "Please, make yourself comfortable. I have some things to say to my men, and then it will just be us for the rest of the day." With that, Ivan disappeared through the door, his guards trailing behind him.

Alfred cleared his throat and looked around the room once more as he slowly paced around it. It reminded him a lot of one of the homes he'd lived in as a child, and a few moments later, he found him splayed out on the bed, staring wistfully up at the ceiling. Everything had been so much simpler during his childhood. He wouldn't give anything he'd gained since then up, of course, but he just wished that, occasionally, he could just stop, lay down, and have the clear blue skies and tall green grass as his only worries in the entire world.

He was jolted awake from a dream of puffy white clouds and grass tickling his legs, only to see Ivan hovering over him, looking apologetic. "I am sorry. I did not realize you were asleep."

He sat up and waved away Ivan's concern. "It's fine. I didn't realize I'd fallen asleep."

Ivan looked around sheepishly. "Um, well, my men have all left for the night, and, um…I have fixed some dinner. Are you perhaps hungry?"

"Oh, I…" He blanked. "Well, yes." He'd been _constantly_ hungry when he'd been living off of hospital food, and the only thing that had saved him was some goodwill fast food runs.

Ivan coughed. "Oh, good. I hope I made enough. I usually just cook for myself."

Alfred blinked a few times, trying to imagine Ivan standing in front of a stove with an apron on. He snorted. "So you cook your own food, huh?"

"Usually." Ivan wouldn't meet his eyes.

"You any good?"

He could have _sworn_ Ivan blushed. "Well, I….do not know, actually. This is the first time anyone but my sisters will have eaten my food. And I seriously doubt they would ever _not_ compliment me on something, despite whatever ability I have or lack."

Alfred grinned. "Ready for a honest opinion?"

Ivan raised an eyebrow. "Honestly? I am not sure."

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><p>"I <em>told<em> you he knew nothing of his brother's disappearance! Why didn't you listen to me?"

"I had to make sure. You know if that if he _did_ have a lead on something, then it would complicate our plans tremendously. America's disappearance is not an advantage we can surrender easily. If there is any indication that America will return, then we need to go to _any_ length to make sure it doesn't come to pass. This is not an opportunity we can allow to slip through our fingers."

"And what about Russia? You _shot_ him. And it _didn't_ kill him! What were you _thinking_?"

"I was thinking that Russia and Canada teaming up was a disadvantage to us. The way I set it up, Canada has no way to prove his innocence, and by the time that Russia recovers—if he recovers—the damage done to Canada's reputation will already be permanent. The world was already beginning to think that the boy had lost it, and this just confirms their fears. Any ability the boy had to discover us is now gone. And we need to make sure that it stays that way for _all_ of them. I don't want any slip ups here, understand?"

"And what if Russia saw you?"

"_No one_ saw me."

"And what if someone begins to suspect that something else is going on?"

"Well, we'll just have to make sure some _unfortunate accident_ befalls them. Have you gotten any word back from Turkey yet?"

"He agreed to our terms. However, he seemed apprehensive about the whole thing. He seems to think it's a little too early to make a move like this."

"Then I suggest you convince him otherwise. And if you can't, then make sure you tell him that _accidents_ can befall _anyone_."

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><p><strong>Dro:<strong> Hm, interesting conversation...

**Next Chapter:** Francis and Arthur try to figure out what the hell happened. Meanwhile, parallel!Matthew finds himself in a bind.


End file.
